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The 
Color 
of 
Life 



Emanuel 
Julius 



Girard, 
Kansas 




Emanuel Julius 



The Color of Life 

Being Rapid-Fire Impressions of People As They Are 

?77? Emanuel Julius 

'' ' .. 

Author of ' 'The Pest, and Other One- Act Plays' ' 




Published by Emanuel Julius, Girard, Kansas 
Post Office Box 125, 

Price: Fifty Cents a Copy 









^v> 



Copuriiht, 1916. 
hy Emanuel Julius 



%^: 



OCI,A4389?l 

OCT 18 1916 



To Mareet, mj? voife 



Contents 



The Lonely Girl 7 

For King and Country — and "Eats" 7 

The Worshippers - ~ - - 8 

The Scab - 9 

The Prince of Cash — - - 12 

Matty and Abbo - •- 13 

"Let Us Pray" 19 

The Visionary 20 

The Dumb Muse - - - 20 

A Bit of Fantasy • 24 

The Wine That Talked 24 

"Young Man, You're Raving" 25 

A Patron of Art 29 

Music Hath Charms - 30 

The Portrait 31 

His Secret - 31 

The Eternal Triangle - 34 

The Prophet 35 

Tragedy 36 

The Scales of Justice 38 

What Was Brought From the Mine 38 

The Journey 43 

The Conqueror Speaks 43 

The Strange Mr. X _ 44 

Mr. Blackstone's Peace Editorial 45 

Wanted— A Short Story 46 

Nine O'clock 49 

Venus and Mars _ - 50 

The Prisoner 50 

Hero or Fool— Which? 51 

When Millie "Cashed In" _ 53 

The Rise of Frank Dunne - 54 

The Man Who Wouldn't Talk - 57 

Christine de Guichard 59 

A Good M an _ _ - 60 

The Prospector of Harlem 61 



The Stranger 62 

A Matter of Taste - _.. 63 

The Heart Expert _ 64 

A Bit of Conversation _... 65 

Sallie's Choice 66 

The Proposal _ 67 

Desire 67 

Wormwood 68 

Mike Mulcachy Was Drunk Again 70 

The Worn-Out Rug 71 

And They Were On Their Way 72 

The Sociological Grafter 73 

Who Was He? 75 

Izzy's New Ice Box 77 

And He Loved a Woman 78 

As It Goes 80 

A Sad Blow 80 

A Modest Beginning 81 

Walls _ 82 

A Rejected Genius 87 

The Father-in-Law of Vivie 88 

The Last Manuscript 90 

Perfume 91 

A Pastel In Pessimism _ _ 91 

Perpetual Motion „ 92 

Was He Sane? 94 



The Color of Life 



The Lonely Girl. 

SHE was a frail little girl, with large, melancholy, brown eyes — 
eyes as deep and profound as night, as mysterious as darkness; 
a face rather pale and drawn — an ever-tired expression occa- 
sionally half lighted by a listless smile. 

She was a silent lover. 

This lonely girl loved passionately. But her earthly ideal, like 
the stars, was beyond her reach. 

She loved a man — noble, brave and handsome. She constantly 
saw his face before her. She knew his every feature and charac- 
teristic. She breathlessly followed his adventures as cowboy res- 
cuing the lovely daughter of the ranchman; as fireman fighting the 
flames; as an amorous knight courting his lady-fair. 

She wept when he suffered, laughed when he smiled, joyed 
when he was victor and mourned when he fell before the enemy. 

She loved him; worshipped the ground he trod, and though 
she never had touched his hand she would have died for him. 

She loved in silence, and from afar. And every night she visited 
the same five-cent moving picture theatre and there feasted her 
eyes on her distant filmy mate and dreamed of days to come when 
her pantomime Lohengrin would leave the vague screen of the ab- 
stract and gather her in his arms. 

For King and Country —and "Eats. 

PATRICK M'CREA — a live young fellow — wanted to go some- 
where. He didn't care where, so long as it was somewhere. 
Port Huron had become a bore, impressing him as the most 
stupid spot he had ever known. Its one redeeming feature, he con- 
cluded, lay in the fact that it was on the main line of the Grand 
Trunk railroad; trains — fast ones — could take him away — to To- 
ronto, to Detroit, to Chicago. But fast trains are only exasperating 
to young men without money. 

Finally, unable to longer endure the place, Patrick M'Crea 
watched his chance one night and glided onto the rods. It was au- 
tumn — and fall nights in Canada are mighty discouraging to per- 
sons who wish to steal rides, but he gritted his teeth and held on 
for dear life. 

At Toronto, towards dawn, he was yanked off by a railroad 
detective and taken to the police station, where he was lodged in a 
cell until court time. It was while he was being taken to the 
station that he saw the poster : 

"FOR KING AND COUNTRY! 
ENLIST NOW!" 

The placard showed a lad — undoubtedly of M'Crea's own age — 
dressed in neat khaki and, apparently, well-fed — very much unlike 
M'Crea. It was only then that he thought of the "joys" of army 
life. Food, clothes, shelter, sociability, recreation — these things he 
thought of as the grim-visaged detective was leading him away. Of 
course he saw trenches and fighting, and mangled bodies, and help- 
less wounded, but these seemed unreal — Canada is so far from Flan- 
ders, you know. Food, rather than Flanders, was uppermost in 
his mind. 



The Color of Life 



The judge (a staid and stern old fossil of the early Wellington 
school of thought) had heard the detective's story and was ready to 
sentence the lad. 

"Don't you know it's wrong to steal rides on a railroad train?" 
he demanded, assuming his most solemn expression. ' 

"Yes, sir," Patrick replied. 

"Then why did you do it?" 

"Because — " and here Patrick thought quickly — "because I want- 
ed to get to Toronto so I could enlist in the army and fight for my 
country!" 

Sensation! The judge almost shed tears. 

"Do you mean to say that you want to fight for King and 
Country?" 

Patrick M'Crea nodded his head, at the same time wondering 
whether it would not be more sensible for him to spend a month 
in jail rather than enlist. 

"You're an honor to your country!" exclaimed the judge, who 
unconsciously fell into his most patriotic speechmaking voice. "The 
British Empire rests on lads like you!" 

Patrick M'Crea blushed. He was so modest. 

"You have no business in this court. You belong in a recruiting 
office," the judge declared, ordering a deputy to see that M'Crea 
Icspt his word. 

♦ 4* 4^ 

A NEWSPAPER reporter got the story. 

It was given space in the afternoon papers. 

The judge allowed himself to be quoted, saying, "The Dominion 
of Canada should be proud of its Patrick M'Creas who are ready to 
die for King and Country." 

As M'Crea left the place he muttered: "King? Hell!" 

And then he fell to an Americanism, grunting: 

"Eats!" 



The W^orshippers. 

THE Observer approached the Temple of Confucius and saw 
many persons bowing before an idol of haunting beauty. All 
kneeled before the wonderful idol; all, except one who merely 
looked on. The Observer asked a man: 

"Why do you worship before this idol?" 

"I am a poet," was the answer; "it is a beautiful idol, a crea> 
tion. Beauty is my God." 

Another replied. 

"I am heart-sick and soul-sick; I am world-weary, and I come 
to this idol to make my life less painful." 

Still another answered: 

"I worship this idol because I am afraid of death." 

An old man said: 

"All my life I have been poor; I worship this idol because I 
hope for a better day in the Beyond." 

The Observer approached the one who only looked on. 

"How comes it, my good man, that you are the lone person who 
fails to fall before this beautiful idol?" 

And he answered: 

"Because I carved this image." 



The Color of Life 



The Scab. 



WHEN the signal was given, the town of Preston got what 
had been hanging long in the air; swaying, like a sword^ 
over the heads of the worried wives of the workers; threat- 
ening, like a storm, to flood the little, struggling business men; 
crowding the workers themselves to a period of war and starvation 
that a larger crust of bread might be the result of their toil. There 
was a strike in the Sullivan Machine plant. 

With a jolt that spoke unanimity, hundreds of machines ceased 
their thundering; the iron monsters were quieted; the steam cooled 
into water and what had been a scene of tireless activities became 
as a cemetery — silent, deserted. To a man the 4,000 dirt-begrimmed, 
perspiring, ragged workers walked into the street and gathered 
in exicted, gesticulating, talkative groups while their three spokes- 
men were in the office with the managers arguing the reasonableness 
of their demands. 

The men waited and waited. Youngsters of the neighborhood 
gathered and expressed their joy over the prospects of excitement, 
and greedily listened to the apprentice boys who had joined the men. 
Women came hurrying to the scene and hunted their providers, im,- 
ploring them to go home "before there's trouble." A half dozen 
policemen tumbled from a patrol and scattered to different pointy 
commanding the strikers to "keep moving." 

The strike was on. The men were out. 

Soon the three spokesmen joined the waiting throng. Their 
faces were set. They shook their heads slowly. 

"What's the word?" asked one. 

Another inquired, "Do they give in?" 

"How's it stand?" 

"Do we get what we want?" 

"Come on, quick!" 

"Tell us all about it!" 

"Give us the news!" 

The commands and questions poured in from a half hundred 
who had rushed upon the three. 

One jumped on a packing-box and shouted: 

"Boys, we saw them an' there's nothin' for us to do but fight! 
They told us to strike and be damned!" 

^ ^ 4» 

WHEN Sam Hoop first heard of the big strike he shook his head 
and said: 

"They can't win, never in a thousand years." 

He was a man of about 60 years, gray-haired and slightly bent. 
His gait was labored and invariably after the slightest physical 
effort he breathed heavily. As a youth and a man, Hoop had tended 
steam boilers. He had even known years of service in the Sullivan 
Machine plant, but with the appearance of gray in his hair, he had 
been told to go. Hardened arteries cause slow movement, and slow 
movements in a wage worker are usually followed by hisJ dis- 
charge. 

For a decade, Sam Hoop had not been permitted to work. For 
a decade he had been forced to do the odd jobs about town — helping 
a huckster, cleaning stables, puttering about at this and that in an 
effort to live. 

But now, with all the men away from their jobs, there appeared 
to be a chance even for Sam Hoop. He shook his head again and 



10 The Color of Life 



muttered something about "them bein' able to use a man even though 
he wouldn't be all that's wanted for speed." 

Sam Hoop little considered the meaning of a strike, or the 
purpose of it all — he only knew they had quit work, that work was 
to be done and that he was willing to do some of that work and 
get "back into the game." That was all. The strike meant a job 
— a good job at the boilers, with regular pay, yes, even good pay. 

So Sam Hoop rose to his feet and walked to the shops. 
i$f ij* i$f 

THE RECEPTION accorded him was unlike those of the past. 
This time he wasn't told "there's nothing doing." Nor was he informed 
that "everything's filled up." Mr. Hillman, the superintendent, 
received him with an air of cordiality. Mr. Hillman even shook 
hands with Mr. — emphasis on Mister — SamueKnote the "uel") Hoop. 

"Ah, glad to see you. . . . You're looking fine, Mr. Hoop. . . . 
We've had a little interference. . . . The men sort of took a va- 
cation for a while Nothing to it, though. . . . Soon blow 

over. . . . We can use you in the engine room, tomorrow. . . . Re- 
port early. . . . Four dollars a day while the men remain stub- 
born. . . . There are big crews coming in from New York, Phila^ 
delphia and Chicago. . . . They'll be here late tonight. ..." 

•ijf ♦jt- -^ 

FOUR dollars! Sam Hoop's head almost reeled; he could 
hardly believe this wonderful news. Four dollars! — a day! Why, 
that was as much as he seemed able to earn in a whole week — four 
dollars. 

As he walked from the shops he appeared inordinately spry. 
He walked with astounding rapidity. But, soon after, he was 
forced to give in under the physical strain and draw his breath 
as though he had galloped a mile. Then, in order to still the 
excitement of his heart, he seated himself on a stoop and rested. 

But, his smile of satisfaction remained. The joy of the day 
was his — he had a job — and his pay would be four dollars a day! 

Somehow he vaguely knew that a certain amount of physical 
punishment was the lot of the strike-breaker, but he felt that his 
years would keep him from suffering at the hands of the strikers. 
Again, the strikers knew he was very, very poor — so they would 
excuse him. 

The news spread rapidly. Sam Hoop was to assist in breaking 
the strike! Everyone knew this Sam Hoop. 

"Ye'll get yer face busted," said one, shaking a threatening fist. 

"Yuh better keep away termorrer," said another. 

Still another prophesied, "I can see yer finish right now." 

The threats flew thick and fast — Hoop's answers were eva- 
sive, and, for that reason, all the more convincing to those who 
knew him that he really intended reporting for work. They didn't 
know that something was dangling before Hoop's eyes — something 
tempting — four dollars. 

He went his way, looking neither to the right nor the left, pay- 
ing no attention to the curses, ignoring the threats. 

While Hoop was sleeping, while the strikers were resting after 
their day of excitement, a silent army of men was smuggled into 
the town and led to the shops, where they were received by the 
officers of the company who outlined details, assured them that dan- 
ger was slight, that protection would be efficient, and the like — 
and all was ready for the morning's happenings. 

Sam Hoop rose early. For a brief minute he hesitated before 
going to the shops. Something told him there was much to fear, 
that the threats made against him were not without meaning. 



The Color of Life 11 



Every time Sam Hoop left the shop gates he felt his heart 
thump as though it were about to break. His heart seemed to 
pound and pound with the strength and violence of a pile-driver. 
And whenever his heart went pounding, his head reeled — he was 
frightened. 

Next night he crept home after a trying day's work in the 
boiler room. He was tired; he was haggard. Into bed he sprawled 
and the v/orry and fright led him to dream a wierd dream which 
sent the cold perspiration creeping from every pore. 

Hoop awoke — frozen with terror. He screamed his fear. He 
cried his anguish. He felt about and realized he was prone upon 
the floor; safe, except for the incessant pounding of his frightened 
heart. 

He whimpered his fear, implored mercy, seemingly unable to 
believe he was safe and that no real danger faced him. He lay in 
bed — the dread of it all in his heart — that heart which responded 
with pain to each of his fears. 

He felt this was an omen for the future. He realized that his 
dream was a premonition of what was really to happen on the morrow, 
when he would go to the boiler room. The strikers would dynamite the 
plant! He trembled with fear. He dared not return. No, he must 
not, for every man in the place would die — yes, die at the hands 
of the dynamiters! 

The longer he trembled and considered the impending tragedy 
the more certain he became that should he return to work his 
fate would be sealed, he would be torn to pieces. 

So, when dawn slowly dispelled the night, instead of going to 
the boiler room he went to the superintendent and told him of his 
fears. 

He stammered: 

"No; I musn't work today — tomorrow I'll work — but not today." 

"There's nothing to be afraid of," said the other. 

"Yes, there is; they're going to blow up the place today! I 
know it; I know it — I'm sure they are — if I work I'll be a dead 
man tonight — " 

"You're an old fool that's what you are," exclaimed Sup- 
erintendent Hillman. "Nothing can happen here; we've got the 
place guarded too well. Don't you know we have a dozen deputy 
sheriffs here? Don't you know we have twice as many guards? 
How can they get in to do any damage? Just you go right back 
to work and forget this foolishness." 

Thus assured by the superintendent, Sam Hoop trudged his 
way to the boiler room. He did his work as though he were in a 
trance. Every word he heard sent a sense of pain through him 
— he dreaded every voice, every sound of a tool, every hiss of steam; 
every noise — everything paralyzed him with dread. The explosion 
must come, he told himself again and again. He worked and worked, 
his heart pounding incessantly, keeping him in a state verging on 
collapse. 

Suddenly — great God — everything about him became black as 
night, something in his brain drew taut and snapped, a terrific ex- 
plosion sounded in his ears, a bang of something mighty — it was 
the explosion! The Sullivan plant was being blown up — the strikers 
were destroying the whole crew! 

Something tore at every fibre in his body. He fell to the ground, 
^f ^4* 4» 

AFTER the coroner's deputy examined Sam Hoop's remains h«» 
opened his record book, and next to "Cause of Death" wrote — ^"hearfe 
failure." 



12 T he C olor of Lif e 

The Prince of Cash. 

SEATED in his cage in the First National Bank, Jean Wellman 
found himself a very busy man. The first to stop before his 
barred window was a well-known, business man, who called 
for $12,000 in cash. In less time than it takes a back alley cat to 
spring from one fence to another, Wellman had the money counted 
and placed in the hands of the depositor. 

"Makes me a little nervous to carry this much money wtih me," 
the business man remarked, tucking the money into an inside pocket. 

"Tut, tut. That's a mere bagatelle," replied Wellman, smiling. 
"No man should get nervous with less than $100,000 in his wallet." 

And when the depositor walked off, Wellman remarked to him- 
self: 

"Funny how some people make a fuss over a little bit of money 
like that! Twelve thousand dollars — what a trifle to worry a man! 
Bah!" 

Within the next half hour this genial teller handed out $80,000 
with the speed of a lightning stroke and the ease of an artist. 

He handled thousands of dollars as though they were mere 
marbles. A call for anything less than $10,000 bored him — Wellman 
liked to handle money — ^not mere "chicken feed," as he put it. 

A woman asked for $6,000. 

The fuss she made over it, the nervous manner in which she 
recounted the money and the care with which she pinned the little 
bundle of money into her bag, annoyed Wellman — but his smile didn't 
disappear. He was an artist in the science of concealing his feel- 
ings — that was a part of his business. 

When a cashier of an automobile factory came for pay-roll 
money and called for $56,000, Wellman became interested. 

"That's a decent sum to handle," he thought. 

It took him exactly forty-eight seconds to count it. 

The next was a mere beggar's mite — $100. What a trifling 
thing to ask for — SIOO. Why should a man be troubled with such 
trifles? 

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Pendwendle. Yes, sir, here you are — ^in 
thousand dollar notes — eighteen of them — good morning. . . . Ah, 
$20,000 — certainly, here you are. . . Yes, Maude Adams is charming. 
. . . We may win the penant if Grogan pitches oftener. . . . There's 
no telling what'll happen." 

By noon, Wellman passed $400,000 to depositors. He handled the 
immense sum of money without even a twinge of his nerves, without 
a wince of his fine mouth. It was all a matter of detail — easily 
done, quickly done and invariably efficiently done. 

"Oh, no; count it again and you'll see I'm right. . . . Certainly, 
don't mention it. . . What's that? . . . Yes, they say there are 
5,000,000 germs on every dollar note, but they never bother me. . 
.. To be sure. . . . 

"Is this a seven or a nine? . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, we 
close on legal holidays. . . . You can't always tell by a woman's 
appearances. . . . Yes, she is a peach, all right, and she has the 
complexion and brains of a peach. . . . No, I don't think women 
make good bank clerks — $10,000? Here you are — good day. . . . 
Oh, good day. . . . Oh, no, it won't rain " 

At noon, Wellman donned his hat. Before leaving, however, 
he stopped at the adjoining window and asked: 

"I say, old man, you wouldn't mind lending me a half dollar 
so's I can eat, would you? I'm clean busted." 



The Color of Life 13 



Matty and Abbo. 

WHEN you proclaim that you are weary of narrations that 
deal with prostitutes, I cannot do other than concur. We 
have had them as numerous as the hairs on the head. Your 
reaction is almost inevitable. Chartered libertines, be they ever 
so humble, are interesting, to be sure, but they have had center- 
stage too long. Your cry for a halt deserves deference. But, whether 
you smile or frown, I shall quilldrive my story of Miss Nash — 
who was not a trollop, but a "Madame" if you please. 

Miss Matty Nash had been a kept woman for many a long day. 
As a fille de joie, she had purveyed, in her own way, to men of 
different feather, for sums that varied. It could never be said off- 
hand that Matty's morality was that of the barnyard. Matty was 
not of the type that demanded so much for such service; rather, 
her price, at times, was unalloyed love; again, all that the traffic 
could bear. True, promiscuous she was, but of an idealistic sort, giving 
and accepting love from a man until he had become a known quantity; 
but when he had ceased to interest her, Matty shut up shop. 

Matty came from folks who were of the most commonplace. 
Had she confined her attentions to but one man,she might have become 
one of the most plebeian of mortals, but, as it was, she imbibed man- 
ifold viewpoints and became familiar with the insights to life that 
are sealed volumes to the average woman of sheltered existence. 
She mingled with the choice spirits, and from each she procured what, 
in the total, composes an outlook on life that is interesting even though 
it may, at times, suggest the inelegant. In truth. Matty was just 
vulgar enough to be interesting, and just interesting enough to be 
vulgar. 

It was after- seven years of this exis^"ence, at a time when she 
found herself hesitating about confessing she had passed her thirtieth 
year, that she concluded to "strike out" for herself — which means, 
in effect, that she took in "boarders", which, in turn, is a delicate 
way of saying that young women willing to accept the embraces of 
men at so much an embrace were housed in a beautiful twelve-room 
apartment in a section of the city where everything, to those who 
take a superficial view of localities, appears "respectable" enough, 
and where anything may occur provided it happens in a quiet and an 
orderly manner. 

It was in a quarter where rowdy vice is objected to, but where 
nothing is uttered against a refined iniquity that has finesse and 
stratagem, that observes the proprieties, that, in a word, shows good 
taste. If I may be permitted to become pointed in my conclusions, I 
shall state that Matty's apartment was in a neighborhood where 
you and I and the best people reside. We may as well be frank. 
We know that these things are so. Why essay to disclaim them? It 
is nothing unusi^al for a staid old professor of paleology to occupy 
an apartment adjo'ning one tenanted by a well-bred, handsome lady 
who entertains a few "boarders." And when this cultured matron 
permits an occas'oral gentleman to ride up the elevator and quietly 
wend his way to her door, who is to say her nay? Who is to make 
rancorous incriminations? 

A decorous ^ady like Matty — one of her polish and courtliness-— 
would never Fuffe'- too many visitors of a night. First of all, it 
would be fatal. Apain, "speedy vice" does not offer the emoluments 
that come with "leisurely vice." It is better to use judgment and dis- 
cretion in choosing a man of means and position than to open one's 



14 The Color of Life 



doors to every male being who can flash a few pieces of green paper. 
. No one would ever affirm that Matty was not a practical women. 
She was a happy combination of utilitarianism and estheticism, appre- 
citing the beautiful and valuing the useful. 

Her twelve rooms were charmingly furnished. She knew a 
beautiful picture when she saw one. The volumes that lined her 
bookcases were of the best. Her rooms were so arranged that four 
gentlemen could be received at one time and each would never know 
who was in the other rooms. Things were so efficiently conducted 
that a man could enter the apartment, pass to a lovely reception 
room and imagine that he was the sole guest. The place was so 
quiet that it ceased to be a brothelry and became an altar where 
lovers — of a sort — might meet to kiss away their cares. 

Matty's "boarders" were ladies; they were never expected to 
caress men who might prove repugnant to them. There was an 
element of beauty in the relationships she arranged for her charges. 
And, to be sure, Matty entertained along with the rest; only, she 
was far more diffiicult to get, preferring to choose with extreme care. 

On the afternoon I have in mind, Matty received a phone call 
from Abbo Rodman. Here was another instance in which the artist 
in Matty's soul expressed itself. Abbo, who was not a person of 
wealth, interested her — both physically and intellectually — and dis- 
regarding so sordid a thing as revenue, she always received him with 
open arms, giving the kiss that has the warmth of sincerity and 
true affection. Matty answered his "hello" with cordiality and made 
haste to welcome him to her place. Informed that he would join her 
as soon as it was possible to reach the apartment, she uttered a 
sentence or two in which she expressed an ardent hankering to re- 
ceive him, and hung up the receiver. 

4» <$► 4» , , 

ABBO, a man of thirtj'-two, was huge — surely at least two 
inches more than six feet in height. He wore loose attire that seemed 
to add to his stature. There was a fine indifference to his "wear" of 
garments. Of excellent texture, they were never pressed. A mere 
stroke with the whiskbroom and they were slipped on; and, though 
there was no crease down his trousers, one could little deny that 
his dress was pleasing. After all, one can be careless only with 
clothes that cost a great deal. Shoddy garments must be coddled 
and coaxed, but valuable weaves may be abused to the extreme and 
still appear winning. 

Abbo Rodman had been a newspaperman until the inevitable 
happened. Either secretly or admittedly, all newspapermen crave 
to pilot a magazine in which they could print everything they may 
long to express, though what they say may be of the most unimport- 
ance. It is not unusual to hear them utter their surreptitious ambition 
for a personal medium. The domesticated type of man may fancy 
a little cottage in the country, a yard full of chickens, a wife and 
three children, but the typical newspaperman visions in a John-a- 
dreams enthusiasm the day when he will have his own thirty-two 
page journal, to be issued once a month for a few thousand extra- 
ordinary souls who will always lend a willing ear. Abbo had 
dreamed the day dream of the toiling scribblers; and he had, four 
years before, resigned his place on the staff of The Press and gone 
to the printers for estimates. For sixty dollars a month he had 
got what he wanted; thirty-two pages, six by eight in size. 

He had had a lucky streak. Having sold a few short stories 
to the popular magazines, and an essay or two on literary and art 
topics to what is often referred to as a "high-brow" periodical, and 
having almost five hundred dollars in his purse, he had waved 



The Color of Life 15 



farewell to a job that irritated him. Thus did he begin to journey 
on what was to him a new, uncharted sea. 

Abbo, who possessed genuine style, had something to say. His 
opinions were compelling. His taste in literature was mature. He 
had genius for paradoxes, and never stooped to banality or platitude. 
He had contempt for current theories of morality, and nothing 
pleased him better than the task of ridiculing the smugness of the 
middle class, the ethics of the House of Have, and the superstitions of 
the masses. He never hesitated to befriend unpopular causes. He was 
never happier than when he was writing what he often termed "the 
minority reports." Abbo was a living protest against all that is 
trite in ideas or mediocre in attitude. 

Throughout this land there are, probably, five thousand persons 
(mainly men) who have an inordinate appetite for "peculiar" angles 
of thought, and they find that their soul-hunger can never be satis- 
fied by reading current popular literature. They turn to the stray 
singers and minstrels who tell their tales of woe and who carol their 
lilts of ecstacy in "one man magazines." Of these five thousand, 
Abbo had corralled about eleven hundred, who paid their dollar with- 
out the slightest reluctance and who read his opinions as though they 
were enraptured disciples at the pedestal of a latter-day saint. 
Sure of his eleven hundred dollars a year, Abbo's task was to sell 
to editors enough matter in order to meet the inevitable deficit. He 
was not a success ; however, he managed to sell. The money that came 
did not remain long, for there always was a bill to be met; always 
a creditor to be silenced. 

This free lance paid, when compelled; and he "stalled" as long 
as possible. His was a beautiful indifference and an irritating calm. 
He was always on the verge of financial collapse, according to his 
friends, but "Abbo's Monthly" always succeeded in appearing. Oh, 
it is not necessary to go into detail — it seems as though there is a 
mysterious power that watches over all "one man magazines" and 
sees that these innocent children safely cross the stream. 

^ ^ ^ 

MATTY, enamored with his keen mind and his virile physiquCy, 
thought there was not another man who could pronounce such stim- 
ulating things or make such clever observations? An afternoon with 
Abbo, she muttered as she stepped from the telephone, would be 
pleasant indeed ; and it was with no little impatience that she awaited 
his arrival. 

On the table there was a bottle of Matty's best wine to bid him 
welcome. Even Mr. Featherstone, president of the C. J. and N. 
Railroad, could not induce Matty to share this precious liquid with 
him. It was for Abbo alone that Matty fetched her concentrated 
enthusiasm. She was not a wine-bibber; it was only on rare oc- 
casions that she consumed more than a bumper or two, but when 
she was in Abbo's company, when she listened to his frolicsome, ex- 
hilarating conversation and sensed the throb of his humor, she would 
join him, glass for glass. 

He was in a particularly buoyant mood. "Abbo's Monthly" had 
ventured its perilous journey and reached port in good time. His 
articles required neither apoligies nor explanations. He was free, 
for many days to come; at liberty to fritter away time, the vice of 
the great. Abboo loved to take days and fling them into the dis- 
card. His great joy was to squander life. The candle of life is to 
be burned, Abbo told Matty. Not at one end, but at both; and, if 

Sossible, a wick should be inserted in the middle. That is what can- 
les are for — to be burned. "When I die," he remarked; "I want 
to be in such condition that the undertaker won't be able to say: 



16 The Color of Life 



*My, what a pity! Isn't he a healthy-looking beast!' I want to be 
burned out completely. I am jealous of death and shall leave him 
nothing. When I cash in, there shall be no chips. I want to burn the 
candle." 

* 4^ ^ 

THEY GUZZLED; and, as these belly-gods sipped, their beings be- 
came mcaiescent. Abbo talked wlch growing volubility as he con- 
sumed more and more. The decanter was soon emptied, and another 
was ushered into service; then, still another. Each drop meant an 
epigram, and as there were many drops, the epigrams were numerr 
ous. Philosophies were spun, and between philosophies, Abbo em- 
braced Matty and kissed her again and again. Life is fundamentally 
sensual, he said; and the delights of the flesh, he argued, could 
never be equalled by the adventures of the mind, for by his senses 
man lives, conquers, suffers and dies. 

The hours galloped by. Matty had shifted the easy task of 
^'supermtendence" to others, electing to devote all her time to Abbo. 
Some ten hours later (which meant that it was almost an hour 
after midnight), Matty and Abbo lay asleep, hopelessly inebriate'd. 

*> ^ ^ 

IT WAS ABOUT ten o'clock when Judge Lempler toddled into 
Matty's apartment. His Honor was a fat, dowdy person, with a haw- 
haw that was grating. He imagmed that because his cachinnation 
was roof-shaking he was, as a logical result, the possessor of a 
rare sense of humor. He visited Matty's place quite often, for there 
was a young blonde who appealed to him. He explained away 
what many consider misconduct by saying: "My poor dear wife is 
getting old; and she's very sick. Now, what can a healthy man 
like me do, when he has an invalid wife?" This argument was con- 
sidered unanswerable. The judge liked Matty's place because of 
the beauty of the surroundings, the privacy — and, above all, the 
charm of the blonde. 

"Where's Matty?" Judge Lempler quizzed the maid. 

"Asleep — I think,' she responded, somewhat confused. "Miss 
Alberts ' — the blonde — "is ready to receive you," she added, with 
hesitancy. 

"Asieep? At this time of the night? What do you mean?" 

"bhe's not feeling well — " 

"Nonsense. Who is she with?" 

Undoubtedly, if the judge had not tippled too freely, he might 
not have asked such direct questions. Afraid to offend the judge, the 
maid answered. 

"She's been with Mr. Rodman." 

"When?" 

"This afternoon, sir." 

"And where is he now?" 

"In Miss Matty's room, sir." 

"They're so true to each other, it's a wonder they don't get mar- 
ried." 

This impressed the judge as being extremely funny. After a 
roar, he remarked: 

"Ihey have the instincts of respectable married people. Say" — 
and here he could hardly control himself — ^"wouldn't it be a great joke 
if they were to get married! — legally, I mean." 

After another outburst, he exclaimed: 

"The joke of the year! Think of it! Abbo, of 'Abbo's Monthly* 
— editor, free lance, booze expert, hater of conventions, married to 
Matty Nash — keeper of a house of joy, high priestess of promiscuity! 
What a joke!" 



The Color of Life 17 



Even the maid, who was leaving him to his whiskey and soda, 
could not withhold a snicker. 

Miss Alberts — who entered a few moments later — said, after 
kissing the judge and hearing what he considered a remarkable joke: 

"They love each other enough to marry. Matty never stops talk- 
ing about him; and he won't look at anybody else in the place." 

"Good," said the judge; "let's wake them up, while they're still 
drunk" — the maid had tactfully imparted the information that both 
were incapacitated — "and we'll put it up to them in such a way that 
they won't be able to say no. I'll get my friend in the County Clerk's 
office to issue a license; I'll perform the ceremony, and we'll have 
them married in a jiffy. Yes, sir; man and wife, for better or for 
worse; with promises to love, honor and obey" — another roar of 
laughter — "and back to bed they can go." 

♦♦♦ ++♦ ♦♦♦ 

, ON THE following day, at about noon, Abbo and Matty awoke. 
Looking at the pillow, he beheld a bit of paper pinned to it. 

"What's this?" he demanded, somewhat sleepily. 

Matty turned her head and read it. She could hardly believe 
her eyes. 

"¥/e're married!" she announced. "My God! We're married!" 

"Let me see," Abbo almost yelled. 

True enough, they were married; there could be no denial of 
this; here it was; a marriage certificate — with his name, and Matty's 
name. 

"Heavens! I'm disgraced! I — Abbo Rodman — a married man!" 

"And think of me," Matty added. 

"Someone has been playing a joke on us — and a mean one, at 
that. I think it's awful to take advantage of a drunken writer and 
marry him off, especially when he doesn't believe in the marriage in- 
stitution." 

Matty, seeing the humor of the situation, laughed. 

"I'll get a lawyer," she decided, quickly, "and have him draw 
up divorce papers." 

"On what grounds?" 

"Oh, this talk is foolish," Matty announced. "I love you, Abbo, 
and you love me — don't you?" 

"Uh-huh!" 

"Then why bother about a divorce?" 

Abbo was willing. Murmuring "wife," he took Matty in his arms 
and kissed her. 

♦J* ♦♦♦ <♦ 

THAT AFTERNOON, Abbo travelled downtown to his home, 
where a large room served as living quarters and editorial office. 
Soon, everything was packed and ready to be carted to Matty's 
apartment, where, as already agreed, he was to live and do his 
work. He would have no worries. Matty had plenty of money — 
she would see to it that all his needs and the requirements of his 
publication were met. 

Thus did the editor and proprietor of "Abbo's Monthly" settle 
down to the life of a married man; and thus did Matty Rodman — 
owner of an exclusive resort — become a lawfully wedded wife. It 
was the topic in the cafes and the clubs where Abbo was known and 
liked. 

It was not long before Matty — who, as already mentioned, was 
of a practical turn of mind — saw that "Abbo's Monthly" had great 
possibilities. She realized that his circle of readers was growing 
and that his work was appreciated. There was no reason why the 
magazine should not be given a chance to grow, she concluded. 



18 The Color of Life 



Matty was of the opinion that "Abbo's Monthly" should become 
"Abbo's Weekly," that it should be enlarged, and that "a little color 
should be thrown on the cover," With Matty's money, Abbo made the 
improvements. He worked hard, writing a great deal and encourag- 
ing a group of young authors to express themselves. He soon de- 
veloped what came to be known as "the Abbo School of Literature." 
The circulation took satisfactory strides. 

As soon as the periodical became a weekly, Matty decided it 
was the appropriate time for determined efforts to sell advertising 
space. She was shrewd enough to know that the magazine could 
soon carry itself on the money received in payment for space pur- 
chased by business men. Abbo, she felt convinced, was not the 
type of person to attend efficiently to such matters, so she took the 
task on her own shoulders, even to the neglect of her own business. 
Soliciting advertisements was not difficult. She did not go a 
step from her apartment, but forced the market to come to her. In 
came Mr. Spencer Harlbut, a director of the Tenth National Bank, 
who was fond of one of Matty's "boarders", and he had to acquiesce 
when she requested him to lend his influence to have the bank use 
the advertising columns of "Abbo's Weekly." It was impossible to 
say no ; as a result, the Tenth National Bank contracted for a quarter 
of a page for an entire year, which meant a weekly income of twenty- 
five dollars. A department store manager, who visited Matt's apart- 
ment frequently, bought a half-page advertisement. 

Mr. Harrison Berlin, of the Mutual Loan Corporation, contracted 
for space. So did Henry Wilfred Stone, of the gas company. Hiram 
S. Fischer, secretary of the Empire Realty Company, saw to it 
that his firm bought a half page._ Abbo's advertising columns soon 
grew to resemble Matty's calling list. 

As a result Abbo's magazine prospered. Where but a few 
months before it had been a losing proposition, it now _ became a 
money-maker. Book companies began to use the magazine to ad- 
vertise their latest volumes. Other firms followed. Abby no longer 
was looked upon as a free larce. He was a publisher, an editor of 
a powerful organ. 

Before long it was decided to close the apar^^ment entirely and 
abandon the business of conducting a resort. Abbo was beginning 
to worry about his future as a publisher, and Matty, seeing that the 
magazine was good-paying, did not feel sorry when she saw her 
way clear to tell the girls to go their separate ways. 

The magazine had been a weekly for less than a year when Abbo 
and his wife were located in a beautiful mansion. Abbo went to 
his downtown office in a huge car. There were servants at the home. 
There were many wealthy friends anxious to have them pay them 
social calls. 

Abbo's past was excused "on literary grounds." Matty was 
considered a highly cultured woman, despite reports of former doings. 
It was ^oked upon as somei-hing quite interesting to met such a 
woman as Mrs. Abbo Rodman, wife of the famous editor and pub- 
lisher. True, these friends were not of the "first" houses; at least 
they were close seconds. Gradually, Mrs. Radraan became a much- 
sought woman. Abbo was recognized as one of the powerful men 
of the community, a person who could influence for good or evil. 

Mr. Featherstone, who as already mentioned was president of the 
C. J. & N. Railroad, telephoned to Mr. Rodman one morning, asking 
him to call at his office. It was urgent, said the president. Hurry- 
ing into his car, Abbo was soon there. 

The point vv^as reached without wastp of words. Mr. Feather- 
stone was desirous of Mr. Abbo Rodman's help in a little matter. He 



The Color of Lif e 19 



wanted Abbo to "take up a proposition." Would he be willing to 
write a few editorials? Would he support the plan? Abbo announced 
that he was in sympathy with the move and would lend h:'s support. 
Of course, the advertisement would be increased from a quarter page 
tc a full page. This would be highly appre-'iated. 

Mr. Featherstone outlined the plan. The present railroad sta- 
tion was entirely too small. The traffic demanded a new one. The 
ideal spot, said Mr. Feathei'stone, was where the red light district 
was holding forth. But, unfortunately, houses dedicated to vice 
are exceedingly expensive, their value is inflated. The fact that 
a house is used for immoral purposes makes it of great financial 
worth, as any business man knows. Rents are high; prices are 
immense. Now, if the city administration could be forced to "put 
down the lid," these houses would be closed by the police, and the 
price of real estate would take a fearful slump. The railroad's rep- 
-resentatives could then step in and dictate prices. 

"Very simple," said Mr. I^ eatherstone. "Of course," he announced, 
confidentially, "we tell you this because we know you are friendly to us. 
We tell you the motive for our vice crusade, as we know you won't 
tell the public, or, rather, the real estate owners. If you will write 
a number of editorials demanding the closing of the district, you 
will help in our campaign. Other editors who we know to be friendly 
have been or are to be approached." 

Abbo nodded his head. 

"I understand," he said. "All I have to do is to make strong 
pleas for civic purity and decency. That's easy. The police will be 
forced to do the rest. And your company will step in, after the work 
is done, buy up the places and have a station built, saving thousands 
of dollars. Good scheme, Mr. Featherstone. I tell you, it's brains that 
count. I could never think of such a brilliant plan. I take off my 
topper to you." 

Matty fell in with the scheme. She saw that full-page ad- 
vertisement. It would be a splendid thing, she thought. Matty and 
Abbo both worked on the first editorial. Abbo wrote it; Matty made 
suggestions for improvement. 

The next issue contained a demand for a viceless city; the police 
were commanded to clean up the district; decency demanded that the 
black spot be wiped out. When he read the editorial Abbo could 
not refrain from laughing; and when he thought of the advertise- 
ments he chuckled. 

"You've become a pillar in society," said Matty. 

"Things move when they get started," commented Abbo. 

"And what a lucky start we had," said Matty. 

"Yes," Abbo added, "both drunk in a swell dive and married by 
a practical joker." 

"You don't have to throw our past up to me," said Matty, a 
frown darkening her face. 



"Let Us Pray. 



>» 



ARON MALAUSSENE, who had just returned from the front, 
was telling of his experiences. 

He told of a chaplain who, manning a piece of artillery, killed 
several hundred, and then, taking off his uniform and donning his 
surplice, said: "Let us pray for the dead." 



20 The Color of Life 



The Visionary. 

THE Great Second Story Man entered society's warehouse and 
began to pilfer. He filled his bag with all sorts of silverware, 
jewels and certificates that would purchase mansions, automo- 
biles and yachts. 

A man rushed upon him, yelling: 

"Here! Here! You are robbing the people! You must make 
restitution at once and never repeat this offense." 

A crowd collected. 

In a huff, the dignified Great Second Story Man said: 

"The idea! How dare you interfere with me, you crazy So- 
cialist! It's quite obvious you are visionary." 

"That's right," said a man who seemed to express the senti- 
ment of the crowd. "We don't want to pay any attention to this 
rainbow chaser." 

With a smile of satisfaction, the Great Second Story Man swung 
his bag over his shoulder and ambled off. 



The Dumb Muse. 

SCURRYING Fritz labored in the kitchen of the castle. The 
smoke and the heavy odors, the heat and the chef's cursing, 
the first cook's fuming and the kitchen boy's hustling impressed 
one that here was a miniature inferno. 

They called him "kitchen boy," but he wasn't a boy. Twenty- 
three, he said he was; thirty he appeared to be. And the decade 
Fritz spent in the castle's kitchen did not tend to beautify him. 
Fritz was less than five feet in height, was round shouldered, part- 
ly bald and his teeth were decayed. He had a quick, nervous, 
irregular gait; deep-sunken eyes; a sharp, piercing, childish laugh. 
He stammered when he spoke. 

In Fritz's mind, life carried no complexities. It was a very 
simple matter, extremely so — work from dark morn till black night, 
sleep in a room close to the kitchen and eat occasionally. That was 
all. 

He never cared to go out — he had not the time, nor had he 
presentable clothes; and above all, he knew no one. But Fritz never 
complained. He was contented. Nothing bothered him. Never did 
impossible desires creep into his heart and gnawingly linger there 
to disturb the daily routine of his life. 

♦> *♦* ♦:♦ 

FOR A WEEK, the entire force labored extra hard preparing 
for a banquet to be held in the upper world. It meant work for 
all. The banquet was to take place in the dining room directly 
above; and for days a small army of electricians, carpenters and 
decorators had been at work transforming the room into the inside 
of a vast flower ball. At one end, a stage was erected from which 
a world-renowned orchestra was to perform. 

On the day of the banquet, all toiled for eighteen consecutive 
hours. An hour before the guests congregated, the chef supervised 
the hauling of the food up into the pantry whence it was to be 
taken to the tables of the diners. As soon as that was attended 



The Color of Life 21 



to, all the kitchen workers, except Fritz, went to their beds. Fritz 
still had work to do. 

The exertion of the last few days had its effect on Fritz — he 
moved about sleepily; looked haggard, pale arid his quick, jerky walk 
gave way to a slow, painful shamble. 

But one light was burning and everything was quiet with the 
exception of a dull, continuous sound that floated down the dumb- 
waiter shaft. The sound was caused by the treading of many feet. 

The noise gradually subsided and a deep silence prevailed. Not 
a sound reached Fritz, who continued his labors before the massive 
stove. As he was shoveling out the ashes, he heard a strange sound 
that came from above. He dropped his shovel — he was entranced. 
Never had he heard such strange, beautiful tones. 

♦^ ♦♦♦ ♦■ 

SLOW AND mournful were the tones of the violas as they 
•opened the theme of the symphony. That morbid, largo movement 
seemed to sound the sobs and wails of the wretched and unhappy. 
As the violas entered farther into their theme, the sob-like tones 
became weaker and softer — slowly were the wails dying out, like 
the heartrending gasps of a bird that bears in its breast the shot 
of the hunter. 

The violins took up a melody of joy. It appeared like a battle 
between a growing giant and a dying dove — louder and grander be- 
came the tones of bliss. Finally, the music of distress was heard 
no more. 

Meanwhile, the song of happiness became stronger and might- 
ier — new instruments joined in this symphony of love — the cellos, the 
wind, the brass, the harp, even the tympany entered this heavenly 
choir. 

The violas had been silent since the cessation of their theme 
of mournfulness, but now the spirit of happiness pervaded their 
sadness and they also entered — though weak at first. The inspiration 
of the others gave added impetus and they also grew stronger in 
this song of ecstasy. 

It was a race of sound. Which would first sound the lost, chord 
of forgotten love, was the feeling it expressed. Rapidly and rhap- 
sodically played the musicians. The tones were carried higher and 
higher, and every instrument seemed striving for that final vibrant 
chord. 

All had caught the spirit of the message. None was lax. All 
went on, and up, higher and higher, when at last, with one climactic 
crash that vibrated through the entire building, the desired tone 
found expression. For a time they held it, and then — all sound died 
out — silence again was king — Fritz again a kitchen boy. 

♦*♦ ♦♦♦ ■♦• 

"WHAT WERE these strange sounds? Who made them?" 
Fritz thought to himself, muttering incoherently. Never had he 
undergone such sensations. He desired to feel, to touch, to see, to 
hear this that had thrilled him to the depths of his emotions 

For the first time he suspected that there was something above, 
in that world of song, that he had never known — something that 
pleased and gratified. 

A great desire to hear more of this grand music came upon him. 
All evening Fritz remained at the bottom of the shaft listening to 
the music of the orchestra, the singing of the soprano, the soft, 
soothing tones of the violin and the rapid cadenras of the ri'^ano. 

When it was all over and Fritz had tumbled into bed, he re- 
mained awake for hours thinking of those glorious melodies he had 
heard — thinking of them and then enjoying them all over again. 



22 The Color of Life 



He envied those who were above. 

"Do I know any one who can play?" he asked himself. With a 
quick move he was seated in his bed. " iTes, the bell boy. He plays. 
I heard the help talk of him." 

He fell back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He was sleepy, 
very sleepy, and as his consciousness faded under the spell of sleep, 
his last thoughts were of that youth from whom he would hear 
more of this light that had entered his soul — music. 

♦jf -ij* '^ 

THE BELL BOY, porters, gardner, watchman, chambermaids 
and the rest were seated at the tables in the help's hall, close to 
the kitchen. Presently Fritz entered the room. He seated himself 
beside the boy. 

After hesitating a moment he asked: "You play the violin, don't 
you?" 

"Yes, I do," was the lad's reply. 

"Can I listen to you play tonight?" 

"Certainly. The steward plays the piano and tonight we are 
going to practice together. Come up and listen." 

"What time does the playing commence?" Fritz inquired. 

"Oh, about eight-thirty," said the youth, taking a sip of coffee. 

"I'll be there," Fritz answered. 

That night the boy had an appreciative audience. Fritz drank 
in every note and looked on with greedy eyes. After an hour of 
Handel, Gounod, and Mendelssohn, they ceased playing. And then, 
while the bell boy was placing his instrument in its case, Fritz hes- 
itatingly asked: "Do you think I ever could learn to play?" 

The young musician was surijrised. He never dreamed that 
the kitchen boy was interested in music to the extent of desiring to 
learn. "Well, I can't say. The best way to find out is to try," 
he answered. 

"Well, will you give me lessons? I will pay ycu." 

"Yes. But first of all you must have an instrument. 

"All right, I will buy a violin." 

Not many days passed before Fritz found himself the proud 
possessor of an instrument, box and bow that cost him a month's 
earnings. With his violin safely hidden under the bed, Fritz thought 
his ideal attained. 

Only after work was finished could he practice, and to attempt 
it at that hour meant the curses of those who were forced to endure 
his ceaseless scratching. Their abuse he patiently bore. But oven 
then, he was too tired and sleepy to put much enthusiasm into his 
efforts. His hands soon tired, his fingers moved slowly and painfully, 
and he was so nervous that he couM hardly hold the bow. 

All this was distasteful to the well meaning bell boy. It did 
not take him long to conclude that Fritz and music made an im- 
possible combination. How to inform Fritz was a problem that 
racked his brain. Once the opportunity offered itself and in a 
soft tone he plainly told Fritz that it was useless for him to con- 
tinue, that physical reasons made progress hopeless and that it 
would be best for him to abandon his intention. 

This struck Fritz like a thunderbolt. All his dreams were shat- 
tered. All his plans were destroyed. 

"Do you really think so? I will never know how to play?" 
Fritz asked. 

"Yes, I feel certain. I'm sorry I encouraged you," the otlier an- 
swered candidly. 

Fritz did not say another word. He was dazed. He merely 
shook his head. When he looked up, the bell boy was gone. 



The Color of Lif e 23 



Fritz slowly regained his normal senses. He felt as though 
his heart were bursting. 

Never? No, no; maybe he means I will never be a great 
player," Fritz thought. He darted out of the room after the 
departing boy. A minute later he was at his side. 

Grasping his arm, he hastily asked: "Do you mean that I'll 
never know how to play a little bit?" 

The bell boy slowly nodded his head. Fritz did not walk any 
farther with the bell boy. He turned back. 

"I will never knov/ how to play," Fritz sighed. "Never, never, 
never." 

For the first time in years, his eyes were dimmed with tears. 
4^ 4» ^ 

AS HE staggered along the pathway he began to question 
^ings. He saw the futility of harboring a single ray of hope. He 
realized that his ideal could not be realized. He saw that his 
whole life had been wasted, that he had been serving others so 
busily that he had forgotten himself; and now, when he reminded 
himself of his cruelty to his own life, he saw that too late he had 
become awakened from his slumbers. 

He continued to the end of the path and entered the road. 
Again and again, he muttered, "I will never know how to play, 
Never, never, never." 

So, through the night a lone boy staggered along, looking neith- 
er to the right nor the left — he walked and walked, but knew not 
where. He only thought of his misfortune and in his breast he 
could feel an all-consuming fire — a fire of destruction. 

For the first time he glanced back over the years he had trav- 
eled. He saw he had always been alone; had never known what it 
meant to have the love of a mother, the guidance of a father, 
the admiration of a friend or the smile of a woman— all his life 
he had been alone to toil. 

What is there to live for? Fritz asked himself. Only i,o work 
all day, sleep in dirt, bear the curses and kicks of brutes and breathe 
the foul air or rottenness. 

Before him was Echo Bay. They bay! How calm, how resting, 
how beautiful it was as it glittered with the light of the moon and 
imaged the dark sky and fantastically formed clouds that hovered 
above; and the grass, the trees, the mighty rocks and the distant 
hills — all wei*e there in all their magnificence. 

But Fritz was tired — tired of everything — of life, of work. He 
craved rest. The night breathed the song of rest. 

Soon he stood on a rock overhanging the bay. He gazed down 
intently. It seemed to call him — to rest. 

Yes, yes, he heard. It was calling him and he would answer. 

He plunged forward, diving clumsily into the little waves. The 
water filled his throat, but he chocked and battled forward. It 
seemed to him that above the roar in his ears there came the re- 
joicing of a violin. It sang its happiness from an infinite distance. 
Then it seemed to him that the string snapped and thereupon the 
waters and the whole world lapsed into dreamless silence. 



24 The Color of Life 



A Bit of Fantasy. 

THE grim reaper stopped at the lady's door, and with a firm 
knock notified her of his presence. 
"Oh, so it's you," the lady said. 

"Yes," said Death; "the time has come. It's your turn." 

"I suppose it won't do me any good to plead for mercy — " 

"No, you must come with me." 

"Immediately?" 

"Absolutely — and without argument." 

"Then I wish to ask you to allow me one minute — just one 
minute." 

"It's not the custom, lady." 

"Can't you allow an exception?" 

"Well, if you don't want any longer, I consent." 

"Oh, thank you." 

She hurried to a mirror. For sixty-two seconds, she labored with 
a chamois, powdering her shiny nose. 

The \^ine That Talked. 

"7 often wonder what the vintner buys 
One-half so precious as the stuff he sells." 

— Rubiayat of Omar Khayyam. 

THE LIBRARY shelves are groaning with books that end with 
— "and they married and lived happily ever after." This story 
is to begin where the others stop — Kitty and Donald married. 

On this particular evening things went extraordinarily bad. 
For instance, Donald's feet had a very unlady-like habit of falling 
asleep every time Kitty tried to sit in his lap. No alarm deck can 
awaken a sleeping foot — the only thing for Kitty to do was to get 
off and sit on the piano stool. 

And that is exactly what Kitty did But alas, Donald was 
trying to read, so, "with a frown, he remarked: 

"Now, don't you get enough time to bang on that miserable box 
while I'm away? I do wish j^ou'd quit this infernal torture while 
I'm trying to read — " 

"You used to like my playing — " 

"You oughtn't to throw that at me," snapped Donald. 

"Oh, you old pessimist," Kitty hissed. 

"That's because I'm your husband," was Donald's quick sally. 

Kitty's lips pursed. She had a stinging reply to hurl. But, 
she decided to speak slowly, very slowly — so anxious was she to 
pierce him to the core. Before she could utter a word, the bell 
rang. 

It was Edgar Hastings, Donald's old chum of bachelor days, who 
called. 

"I say, old man, Vv'hat do you say to the three of us passing an 
hour or two at old Casselli's?" Edgar asked. 

"Oh, that'll be grand!" Kitty exclaimed, glad that Edgar had 
included her in his invitation. 

Soon they were seated at a table. Kitty and Donald forgot their 
spat, the wine flowed freely and good humor reigned. All drank 
of the liquid joy and all were happy, particularly Kitty. 



The Color of Life 25 



Donald had changed. His churlishness gave way to a boyish 
enthusiasm. He laughed and told funny stories that sent thrills 
of happiness through Kitty. Splenetic Donald had became a prince 
of good fellows. 

Midnight still found Donald and Kitty together at the table; 
Edgar had bidden them good-night. And then a susprising thing 
happened. Donald leaned over and kissed Kitty. She blushe-d, for 
this was almost a new experience. She trembled with excitement 
and happinss. 

"Ah, my dear little wife," Donald whispered. "How happy I 
am when we are together? You are my sweet Kitty, and I love you." 

Kitty could hardly believe her senses. She glanced around hastily 
to see if anyone were listening. Then she spied the bottles on the 
table. She paled. Kitty realized it was not Donald but the wine 
that was speaking. 



"Young Man, You're Raving." 

"OUNG man," blurted Clark Harding, as he threw Jordan's 
copy into the receptacle for all that proves unsatisfactory 
99 -*- to newspaper editors; "young man, you're raving." 

Jordan snapped: 

"That's a big story." 

"Maybe it is, but I'm not paying you for what you consider 
big stories I v/ant the stuff that I want — and I don't want anything 
else. That's clear, eh?" 

"The people ought to know about that" — Jordan pointed to 
the waste-basket. 

"Maybe so," Harding returned, "but this is my paper, and I'm 
not interested in knocking the gas company." 

"The people are going to know," Jordan declared, quickly. He 
leaned over and took his copy from the basket. Shaking it in 
Harding's face, he added: 

"If there isn't a newspaper that'll print this story then it means 
there's room for another and I'm going to start it." 

Harding, paying no attention to this ridiculous statement, slowly 
said: 

"You'd make a valuable man, Jordan, if you'd drop your fool 
notions and get into the traces. You've got lots of good stuff in 
your make-up, but you've got no judgment or you wouldn't bring 
in a story like this. The idea! If it had been somebody else, I'd 
fire him on the spot." 

"I'm through," Jordan announced, "I'm. going to get this story 
before the people if I have to hold soap-box meetings in competition 
with the Salvation Army." 

And, true to his v/ord, Jordan quit and went the round of the 
papers, but found them unwilling to print his story. They couldn't 
deny that what he said was true, for Jordan had given much time 
to his facts. They had to admit that Jordan was telling the truth 
when he charged the gas corporation with bribing the city council 
in order to obtain an extension of its franchise. 

Certain that he could not get a hearing, Jordan proceeded to 
carry out his threat. He was young — and that explained a great 
deal. Young men always do impossible things — and Jordan was a 
very young man; and Jordan was angry, too. 

♦■ ♦♦♦ ♦?► 



26 The Color of Life 



NEWSPAPERS are exceedingly funny things. They can cost a 
million, or they can be established with the price of a box of cigars. 
Jordan knew this. Harding's plant cost a half million, and when his 
mountain labored, it brought forth an eight-page morning paper 
that delighte'd the fuzzy-wuzzies because of its "quiet tone", its 
"dignity and respectability." And yet, it cost a half million. Great 
presses, twenty-two linotypes, a big ad room, a top-heavy editorial 
staff — all to get out the eight-page organ of Things As They Are. 

Jordan got busy and saw a man who was publishing a weekly 
paper at the end of a carline, somewhere, somehow — why, nobody 
knew. He had a plant that was worth less than the price of a 
second-hand Ford. Jordan offered him cash, and, to the surprise 
of no one, the publisher and editor of The Weekly Eagle accepted. 

Jordan loaded the entire outfit into a wagon and had it delivered 
at an empty store some blocks from the center of the city, where 
rent was low. He looked over his possessions, and concluded that 
if he couldn't raise cash on the outfit, he'd surely raise hell. And 
he did. 

Jordan got a printer Avho had lots of faith in humanity, which 
means he didn't inquire if wages would visit in the manner that 
wages should. 

"I'm going to get out a four-page paper," he told Nelson. 

"With what?" 

"With this" Jordan replied. 

"I don't doubt that you can get something out of this, but you 
ain't going to call it a newspaper, are you?" 

"I sure am. The people's paper — that's it! The People's Paper 
— that's what I'm going to call it. A good name — The People's Paper; 
and it's going to fight the people's battles. If you want to help, I'll 
make you foreman when I erect my new building." 

Nelson threw off his coat and went to work. 

"You can begin on this," Jordan said, handing him the copy that 
Harding had rejected. "And," he added, "it 'doesn't make much 
difference what else gets in. This story will sell the paper." 

With liberal use of display type and staggering headlines, the 
first page of Vol. 1, No. 1, of The People's Paper, in the language 
of Nelson, was a "humdinger." The seven-column headline, "Gas 
Company Exposed!" could be read a block away. 

"So the People May Know" became the motto of Jordan's 
newspaper. He repeated it a dozen times in his four pages of fight. 
His editorial, set in 24-point type, announced that The People's Paper 
would be the community's crusader; it would hew to the line and 
let the chips fall where they may; it would be blind as a bat to all 
but the truth; it would expose unmercifully; it would espouse the 
cause of the poor and fight the conspiracies of the rich. The People's 
Paper would assist in labor's battles for justice, for better living 
conditions, for sanitary workshops. The union label would be boost- 
ed. Jordan's editorial read like a revolutionary manifesto. It plain- 
ly told advertisers that they would pay for space — "not for silence." 
The People's Paper would have no strings tied to it. Free speech! 
Free press! It throbbed with radicalism; it breathed revolution. 

"There's a wallop in every line," Nelson commented, as he 
glanced over the final proofs. 

"And a knock-out in every paragraph," Jordan added. "In 
tomorrow's issue I'm going to tell the people how foolish they are 
to expect a big paper for a penny. When it's bulky it has to 
lean on the crutches of big business, or it couldn't pay its paper bill. 
Anyway, the average person doesn't spend more than five minutes 
on a newspaper, so why patronize one that is filled with bunk? 



The Color of Life 27 



Four pages, at one cent, will satisfy anyone, provided they're full 
of snap and punch." 

And then, the paper went to press. The old flatbed groaned when 
set in motion. It was christened "Rhinoceros" by Nelson, and Jordan 
agreed it was fitting. A piece of machinery has temperament. A 
press is more than a conglomerate of wheels and levers; it has 
personality and moods and temperament and responds to great causes. 
If one doubts this, let him ask a linotype operator, for instance. He 
will tell you his machine can think, can resent an insult and appre- 
ciate a kindness. "Rhinoceros" seemed to sense the fact that he 
wasn't laboring on "The Weekly Eagle" but over a daily organ 
of reform; and the result was astonishing. 

Before long 3500 copies of The Peof>le's Paper were stacked in 
Jordan's shop. He had pre-dated the paper, so it could be of ser- 
vice on the following day; and, with his copies ready for distribution, 
be hired a wagon and got to work. 

On the following morning the people greeted a newcomer. They 
had the pleasure of reading an afternoon paper, while the morning 
papers were still functioning, which was quite an innovation. The 
other papers didn't seem to mind, for The People's Paper impressed 
them as being a child, destined, like all good children, to a very short 
existence. Harding laughed at it; the gas company officials sneered; 
Jordan worked on the next issue — and the people gobbled up the 3500 
papers. 

The sales brought him a little over $18, which pleased Jordan 
immensely; and, as expenses were exceedingly low, as both he and 
Nelson were not burdened with families, as both didn't have to 
pay room rent because they took what little rest they got in the 
rear of the composing room, there was enough money on hand to get 
out the next issue — which ambled forth to the tune of 5000, with 
a swifter wallop and a harder punch. 

And then, to Jordan's delight, came the great street car strike. 
Sixteen hundred men quit. Their demands scorned by the officials, 
they organized for a long fight. This was Jordan's opportunity. 
He did not let it pass him. With a jump, he took up the cause of 
the oppressed workmen. While all the papers were misrepresenting 
and maligning the strikers. The People's Paper fought for the men, 
their wives and children. In need of funds, the officers of the union 
organized a squad of 200 men to sell copies of The People's Paper 
in the streets. The papers were sold as rapidly as "Rhinoceros" 
could turn them out. And the clumsy beast, the thick-skinned per- 
issodactyl mammal, responded nobly, serving humanity as humanity 
should be served. The strikers sold the papers at five cents each, 
turning two cents back to Jordan, who, to be sure, was actually 
making a profit on a paper that was a little more than a week old. 
From then on the circulation depended on the capabilities of "Rhin- 
oceros." 

The strike lasted eight weeks, and if it had not been for the 
support of The People's Paper the fight would have been lost. The 
men returned to work, their demands granted, and Jordan was re- 
warded with a newspaper that was established in the hearts of the 
common people. 

Business men, contrary to current opinion, are human beings 
and are moved by their immediate interests. When they saw that 
The People's Paper was reaching the people, and as they had 
commodities to sell, they purchased space in Jordan's paper. 

As a result Jordan's paper moved into better quarters, with 
three linotypes, a Hoe press, a business office — and Nelson in charge 
of the composing room. 



28 The Color of Lif e 



There were five department stores that gave advertising pat- 
ronage to newspapers, and of these, Jordan succeeded in getting 
The Hub to purchase space. The Hub was conducted by a man who 
cateied, primarily, to the working people. The others, striving 
for the middle and upper classes, didn't see any advantage 
in advertising in The Peopie's Paper, but The Hub couldn't see 
its way clear to go into any paper but Jordan's. 

So, The People's Paper became an established institution. It 
fought for everything that was right; it supported the radicals in 
all election campaigns, and exposed the politicians in office with a 
persistency and vigor that drove terror into the hearts of the 
interests. 

^ ^ ^ 
"I'VE GOT a peach of a story," said Spencer, one of Jordan's 
livest reporters. 

Jordan was all attention, for this lad had brought in most of 
the big stories. 

"I'd like to spend a few days looking into the department stores. 
My idea is to connect the low wages of the department stores with 
the red light district. They ought to be a peach of a series," Spen- 
cer enthused. 

"Good idea," Jordan agreed; "go to it." 

Jordan, having a dinner engagement with Mr. Carlson Brill, 
general manager and owner of The Hub hurriedly left his office. 
"This young man pleased Mr. Brill immensely, for Jordan was of the 
type of men he liked. And they became friends. He was introduced 
to Mr. Brill's daughter, an accomplished, charming young woman. 

A few days later Spencer brought in his first story. It told, 
in a manner that amazed, of wages in the department stores. It 
exposed the unjust fines system, the long hours, the foul working 
conditions — and, above all, the miserable wages. And, The Hub 
was the worst of all. 

"This is great stuff," said Jordan. 

Spencer was delighted, but when he read his story that after- 
noon he noticed that all references to The Hub had been stricken out. 
Jordan got along swimmingly with Mr. Brill, who appreciated the 
young publisher's kindness in om.itting mention of his store. And 
Jordan learned to love Miss Brill, with the usual result. When they 
were married, Mr. Brill turned over an interest in The Hub to 
Jordan. Also, he told him of a good many propositions in which to 
invest his profits. Before long Jordan had huge sums in the gas 
corporation, the car company and a street paving concern. _ 

Mr. Brill proposed Jordan's name for membership in the best 
club, and he was admitted. He mingled with the brothers of v/ealth 
and the leaders of the class of Have. He was a part of them.. They 
liked him, and told him of many ventures that should, in time, prove 
profitable. 

Saturdays and Sundays were always spent at the country club. 
He subscribed for a box at the opera. He donated liberally to the 
construction of a little theatre, devoted exclusively to plays that 
were artistic, though they were not popular. When the new city 
hall was dedicated, Jordan was one of the speakers. He became a 
thirtjr-third degree Mason, a high official in the I. O. O. F., toast- 
master at the banquets of the Knights of Pythias. 

In the meantime The People's Paper, because of an astonishing 
volume of advertising, grew to sixteen pages. His policy was fear- 
less when treating of the persecution of Mexican peons, of Jews in 
Russia and the dangers of Asiatic immigration, but he gradually 
grew to feel that it was unpracticable to reform too close to home. 



The Color of Life 29 



And when another car strike broke forth, Spencer who covered 
the story in a masterful niianner, brought in copy that championed 
the side of the strikers. But Jordan was a director in the car com- 
pany, so he wasn't enthusiastic. 

"Young man," blurted Jordan, as he threw Spencer's copy into 
the waste basket; "young man, you're raving." 



ttTT) Y Jove! Smith," the editor exclaimed enthusiastically, "the 
YS chap that wrote this is a genius. He'll strike a new note if 
•^ only he gets a chance. Read this 'copy' over, will you, and 
jjpu'll see for yourself." While the manuscript was changing hands, 
the editor turned in his swivel chair and shouted, "Copy-boy!" "Say 
Tommy, what sort of a fellow brought this story in?" 

"Aw, Gee, he's a bum lookin' skate. His skin's hangin' out 
over his bones, an' he soitenly looks as though he'd grab at a free 
lunch — " 

"Tell him I want to see him," the editor ordered. 

It was a forlorn creature that stepped to the desk. 
His appearance was none too pleasing. A pallid face, shrinking 
demeanor, furtive glance and v/eary expression were noticeable after 
a moment's glance. 

"You wrote that?" the editor asked, pointing toward the man- 
uscript in Smith's hands. 

"Yes." 

"Pretty good stuff," the editor remarked unenthusiastically; 
"I guess we'll be able to use it some day." 

"T-thank you," came from the young man, his face lighting 
up with joy on hearing this decision. And then he hesitatingly in- 
quired about the compensation. 

"Oh, we pay our contributors on the Saturday morning fol- 
lowing publication. Good morning." 

Five or six days later Smith turned to the editor and said, "I 
say, what about that story you bought last week. I haven't seen 
it in print yet — " 

"Oh, I'll use it some day," was the editor's reply. "I tell you 
Smith, I've read that manuscript over and over, and each time I'm 
convinced all the more that that young fellow has a great future 
before him, but I've decided to go slow — " 

"Why?" interrupted Smith. 

"Well, it's this way. I don't want to spoil the chap. I used to 
write that way when I was young, but prosperity and commercialism 
have ruined me. I don't want the same to happen to that boy, so 
I've decided to let him starve a while. It'll do him good and give 
him incentive for more and even better work." 

Just then a reporter entered the room and handed in a half- 
dozen "local items." The editor hurriedly glanced at them. One 
impressed him particularly. It read: 

"Steven Orland, a young man of twenty-two, said to have pos- 
sessed marked literary talent, was found dead in his room at 210 
East 12th street, yesterday morning. Starvation is given as the 
cause of his death." 

"Well, what do you think of that?" the editor muttered to 
himself, as he threw the notice into his waste-basket. He feared 
Smith would see it. 



30 The Color of Life 



Music Hath Charms. 

OF COURSE, Dick was not to be totally blamed. Accidents will 
happen, you know. In a moment of carelessness, his horse 
turned to the right and caused the wagon's right wheels to 
sink into a foot-deep trench in which some of the city's laborers 
were digging. 

The first thing Dick did was to get violently angry. He was in 
a hurry to catch a boat. 

"Bring yer nag to the roight an' thin back oot," suggested a 
red-haired Irishman, after heaving a shovelful of soil on the sidewalk, 

Dick tried to obey, but only managed to get his horse in the 
trench. To back the wagon was beyond that poor animal's strength, 
so he stood and puffed as Dick turned to the Irishman and called 
him a "muddle-headed Harp." Then followed a heated argument 
in which that son of Erin threatened to put a three-foot dent in 
Dick's shadow. 

In the meantime, a number of trolley cars had been blocked. 
The motormen and conductors all agreed that Dick should clear the 
way. One remarked that "that guy ain't no driver. He'd make a 
better nurse." The others seemed of the same opinion. 

Dick pulled out his whip and lifted it. "Hold" shouted a min- 
isterial-looking individual. "Dare to strike that poor, dumb crea- 
ture and I call an officer of the law!" 

A messenger boy came to Dick's defense, bawling: "What's de 
matter? T'ink 'e kin put sense in dat hoss wid a fedder duster?" 

"Tell you what to do, Mister, try to get yer hoss to pull left. 
Maybe he'll get over," was the suggestion a bystander offered. 

Dick tried; but failed. 

"Come on, come on," shouted the motorman, "get a gait on — we 
ain't—" 

Poor Dick was bewildered. Turning to the motorman, he yelled, 
"Come over here an' I'll bust yer face, you frazzle-faced mutt!" 

"Who's a mutt—" 

"Come over here an' I'll show ye soon 'nuff," Dick re- 
plied, brandishing his business-looking whip. 

"Dat's right, stand up fer yer rights," rem^arked a newsboy, 
encouraging Dick in the hope that a fight might ensue. 

Just then an Italian organ-grinder stopped on the other side of 
the street and proceeded to yank out, "The Wearin' O' the Green." 

Dick, who had intended saying something particularly nasty, 
changed his mind. The motorman forgot all about the near-fight 
and whistled excitedly, beating time with his feet. The news and 
messenger boys clasped hands and tried to waltz a few steps. Even 
the solemn-faced gent humm,ed, as he fetched a penny out of his 
pocket and threw it into the collector's tambourine. 

When the organ grinder had gone, the motorman deserted his 
car to look the situation over. "Say," said he, "that hoss can't 
pull that load out alone. Say, fellers, give us a hand and we'll get 
'er out all right. Hey, you," (to the bible teacher) "get behind here 
and push! An' you, come on, you too. Altogether now, boys. Over 
with 'er. Dat's de stuff." 

And what pleased Dick most was the fact that he didn t miss 
the boat. 



The Color of Life 31 



The Portrait, 



SHE was one of the sisters of the streets. She offered herself to 
the grinners. One day, an artist came by. "Here is the type," 
he said. "I shall paint her picture." He took her to his studio 
and worked three days. At last, it was finished. 

Paid for her services, she returned to the streets. The artist 
sold the picture. 

A few years passed, and the pallid sister of the streets was 
cast aside. The grinners would have no more of her. She fell from 
the sisterhood of the street to the driftwood of the gutter. And, 
though she was only thirty, she looked fifty. 

One day, she happened to pass an art store. In its window she 
saw a picture, a woman's portrait. 

* She stopped to gaze at it a moment. It was familiar; it was 
her own portrait. She caught a glimpse of her real self in the 
glass and shuddered. What a change! 

Two men halted at her side and looked at the picture. 

"Say," said one, with a grin, "some skirt there, eh?" 

"Just my style," the other laughed; "I wouldn't mind bein' her 
darling." 

They grinned and passed on. 



His Secret. 



STEVE approached the foreman and huskily said : "I'm through. 
Gimme me money." 
"But," the other feebly protested, "the boat's only half un- 
loaded. What d'ye say to working the other three days?" 

"Naw! Three days is nuff fer me. Fork up six plunks — " 

There was nothing else to be done, so, with an oath, the foreman 
paid Steve what was due him, exclaiming: 

"There ain't a bone in yer body but what it's lazy through and 
through. Yuh never was no good, and ye'll never be no good — 
jruh good-fer-nothin', yuh!" 

Steve leered at him, but ventured no reply. Money in his hand, 
he slouched away. 

A dollar went to Mrs. Flanigan for the rent of a dingy, dirty 
room. The rest bought two pounds of tobacco, three quarts of whis- 
key and a supply of grub. Loaded with packages, Steve shambled 
into his gloomy, ill-kept room, lit a candle, placed his purchases on 
a rickety table and threw his greasy, tattered coat on a small pack- 
ing box that modestly did the service of a chair. 

■•$*• "^ ■•$*■ 

STEVE WAS twenty-six. His body was strong, but he had a 
face that was not very pleasing. It was dirty. Through the dirt 
one could discern the signs of youth. This was no easy task — but 
they were there — and you could see them. His eyes were small, black 
beads hidden in their' sockets. The teeth were all there, but they 
were tobacco stained and black. Only fragments of his disheveled 
hair could be seen. The bulk of it was covered by a cap. As Steve 
was lighting his pipe, he noticed an insect creep up his shirt. He 
made no effort to remove it. 



32 The Color of Life 



With a yawn, Steve crept into bed, his scrawny shoes still on 
his feet. But there was no danger of dirtjdng the bedclothes, be- 
cause there wasn't any bedclothes. To soil the mattress was im- 
possible. The limit had long been reached. 

Steve puffed his pipe in a drowsy manner. The tobacco smoke 
crept into his eyes and nostrils — soon the pipe was out, his eyes 
closed, his breathing deepened — and Steve was asleep. He slept for 
fourteen hours. 

Steve awoke because he was hungry. After eating a half loaf 
of bread, his hunger was appeased. Then followed a long, gurgling 
draught of v/hiskey. After he felt it burn its way down into the 
pit of his stomach, he leaned over his pipe. He was soon smoking 
again. 

Something indescribable happened. Something really perplexing. 
His mind moved — his brain — what shall I say? Thought? No! 
Steve's mind could not think. Meditated? Reflected? Pish! He 
dreamed a day dream? No. Still he gazed at the ceiling in a dazed 
way, and — well, I simply must leave it to your imagination. 

But one thing was certain — Steve was in paradise. And he 
intended to remain there until all the grub was eaten, all the to- 
bacco smoked and all the whiskey consumed. That was positive. 
That was his program this time, as it had been scores of times in 
the past. Then would he stagger out of bed, go to the wharves, help 
unload a boat for three or four days — and back to bed for another 
week. That was his program. But — 

♦♦♦ ij+ ♦♦♦ 

A GIRLISH voice rang out. 

"Mrs. Flanigan!" 

Steve listened. 

"Mrs. Flanigan!" 

It was the same voice. Some one was in the hallway. Steve 
did not move. 

•■'Mrs. flanigan!" 

Steve puffed in silence. 

"Ain't yuh in the house?" came from the hall. 

The knob of Steve's door turned. A second later a girl of 
about twenty was standing on the threshhold. 

"In here, Mrs. Flan—" 

She stopped short when she saw Steve sprawled out on the bed. 

"I— I—" 

Steve looked at her. With a slow move, he sat up in bed and 
ventured : 

"Maybe she's gone to the grocery." 

The girl, Steve noticed, was sniffing. 

"Gee!" she exclaimed, under her breath. "It smells like a 
pig pen!" 

And with that, the door shut with a bang, quick steps pattered 
down the hall, and all was silent again. 

Steve's mouth opened slowly. The pipe fell into his lap. 

"The damned little cuss!" he muttered, in amazement. 

*:♦ ♦ ♦j^ 

"WHO'S THAT KID?" Steve wondered. He vaguely recalled a 
head of black hair, wistful blue eyes, a roguish, upturned nose and 
small pouting lips. 

"The little cuss had the gall to say that," thought Steve, lookmg 
around. "Some people've got poky noses," Steve concluded. "It's 
a wonder she wouldn't mind'er own business." 

And with that he fell into bed, with a loud crash. Steve re- 
lighted his pipe. The latent curiosity in him was aroused and de- 



The Color of Life 33 



termined him to learn who and what this "damned little cuss" was. 
So, when Mrs. Flanigan passed his door an hour later, he stopped 
her with this inquiry: 

"Say, Missus, who's that kid that v/as here this mornin'?" 

"Sure, an' she's not like the likes of you," she answered abruptly. 
"She's a dacent, hard wurkin' girrul what earns 'er livin' in a box 
fact'ry— " 

"What's 'er name?" 

"Little business is it of your's — " 

"Huh." 

"Sure, it takes the likes of me to know the likes of you." 

And that was an end to it. Steve returned to his bed, his pipe, 
his whiskey and his grub. But something in him was moving. Some- 
thing was calling. What was it? Instinct? Maybe. I don't know. 
But it was something. Something strong, powerful. It made him 
restless. He felt like moving. Suddenly it dawned upon him. 

"Jimminy!" he exploded. "I'm stuck on the little cuss!" 
*^ ♦■ ♦■ 

THE GIRL'S words remained in his mind. It was impossible 
for him to forget them. "It smells like a pig pen," he repeated, slowly. 
"What'd she mean?" 

Steve peered about. He saw nothing particularly offensive. He 
sniffed. Nothing obnoxious reached his nostrils. 

Hesitantly, he left his room and stepped to a front room which 
he presumed was occupied by the girl. Warily, Steve opened the 
door and peeped in. 

The room was even smaller than his own, but he noticed every- 
thing was in exquisite order. Things were tidy, clean and cheery. 
Here and there was a magazine picture tacked on the walls. Ribbons 
and spangles decorated the corners. And above all, a delicious odor 
pervaded the atmosphere — an odor only woman knov/s how to create. 

Steve lowered his head and thought for a moment or two. He 
saw something move on his shirt. It was an insect. With a quick 
move he ended its existence. 

Steve's restlessness was becoming more pronounced. This was 
remarkable, considering that never before had he felt restless in the 
slightest degree. 

And then he did a startling thing — he hurried to the wharf, 
where he was immediately placed at work. In three days he finished, 
but not for long. A White Star steamer from Savannah enabled 
him to put in another week. At the end of that time Steve had just 
about fifteen dollars. 

Late Saturday afternoon he made a shopping trip around town. 
This time he bought a hat, shoes, shirt and a cheap second-hand 
suit of clothes. 

This was a crisis in Steve's life. He realized he was in love 
with that pert, quick girl — the girl who had insulted him. He want- 
ed her. 

With a mass of packages under his arms Steve started back 
to his room. As he entered the hall he saw the girl coming down 
the stairs. She was leaning on the arm of a young, bright-looking 
lad of about twenty-one. He was a splendid type of working boy, 
and remarked loud enough for Steve to hear: 

"Yep; I'm certainly glad I was let into the union — " 

"So'm I, dearie," came from the girl. 

Steve felt m.iserable. He seemed in a stupor as he gazed ahead, 
packages in hand. 

As the girl passed Steve, she whispered to the other: 

"There's that pig I was telling you about." 



34 The C olor of Lif e 



Steve heard that remark. A lump gathered in his throat and a 
sickly sensation crept into the bottom of his stomach. 

He slowly walked up the steps, entered his room and threw 
the packages into a corner, where they were left unopened. "With 
an oath, he flopped into bed, alongside of which were grub, to- 
bacco and whiskey. As he lit his pipe, Steve saw another bug on 
his shirt. He made no effort to remove it. Then followed a long, 
gurgling draught of whiskey. . . . Steve was in his old paradise. 
And he intended to remain there until all the grub was eaten, all the 
tobacco smoked, and all the whiskey consumed. 



The Eternal Triangle. 

BY turning to my violin every Sunday morning, I would forget 
the fearful toil just finished and the prospect of another week 
of labor. From my tiny room I sent melodies across the tene- 
ment yards to that concealed Somebody who sang back to me in 
her beautiful, clear, sweet contralto. How inspiring were her ap- 
pealing lilts! 

I usually began with improvisations, allowing my fingers to 
race up and down the strings. I played thus for probably a minute 
— and waited. Then would I hear her — usually beginning at low C 
and going as high as F, with an occasional trill. Thus did we greet 
each other. 

I would scrutinize the giant tenement's rear, wondering if I 
might catch a glimpse of her, but never succeeded. It appeared to 
me as though the music came from a room situated on the far right 
of the over-crowded East Side Brobdinagian cave dwelling. Be- 
fore long I concluded it was quite desirable I should remain ignorant 
of the identity of my song bird. The very thought of conducting 
weekly musical "conversations" appealed to me. Surely she was 
beautiful to look upon, for how could one with such a lovely voice 
be other than exquisite? 

Before arriving at this determination I had planned to go to 
the door of that mountainous rookery (which opened on the other 
block) and wait there until I might see who was my sister in song, 
but I soon banished the thought — I would not know her even were 
I to meet her, and above all, I might become thoroughly disillusioned. 

I chose to fiddle for her and have her chirp for me, looking 
upon my neighbor as some veiled spirit fro manother world. And 
what joy this weekly experience gave me! While at my trying work 
I would relish the pleasure of the past Sunday and dream of the 
delights to come. 

♦jf ♦> ^« 

AFTER OUR BRIEF introductions, we would begin our reper- 
toire, I, in all probability, leading with a fantastic Hungarian dance — 
something with ferver and enthusiasm. She would reply with a light, 
breezy song. I would then turn to Chopin — I always did love Chopin. 
A song by Schubert would serve as her ansv/er. And so it would go. 

As I played my instrument I would picture her in my imagina- 
tion. I would see her as the personification of my ideals. All the 
charm, all the beauty, all the finesse that woman is capable of, I 
felt positive were wrapped in her personality. 



The Color of Life 35 



For months this continued. Frequently I would add to my 
repertoire; she would never lag behind, readily singing an appro- 
priate answer. 

^?* ^f <♦ 

ONE SUNDAY MORNING, just as I had finished a Hungarian 
dance by Brahms, I was amazed to hear a sonorous baritone from the 
tenement to my right. Though I appreciated the fact that his 
voice was of rare quality, I was indignant over his impertinence in 
entering what was to me an affaire that would not brook interference. 
His identity, like the woman's, was unknown to me, but I pictured 
him as a black-haired, heavy-eye-browed scoundrel, whose only mis- 
sion in life was to destroy the happiness of lovers. 

From then on I often sensed the fact that this baritone was 
anxious to win my lady from me. I developed a great hatred for 
him. At first I was merely irritated; soon I loathed him and would 
have gone to any limits to rid myself of his pestiferous presence. But, 
alas, my rage was of no avail. He sang; and gradually I noticed 
that I was not receiving the immediate responses to which I had 
been accustomed. She preferred to reply to his songs, not even, at 
times, deigning to recognize my participation in the program. How 
I was pained! 

He would sing the prologue to "Pagliacci" in an effective man- 
ner, I had to confess. Especially did I appreciate his sense of the 
dramatic. Had I not been so infernally jealous I might have enjoyed 
his art. 

I played Massenet's "Elegy" — that masterpiece in tears — im- 
parting as much of its feeling as I was capable of, but her 
answer was a French comic song! She was laughing at me! The 
baritone — hateful rival that he was — would interject with a senti- 
mental love ballad, to which she would reply with something equally 
amorous. 

Finally, she ignored my pieces, paying not the slightest atten- 
tion to my "Anitra's Dance," my "Ases Tod," my preludes or my 
nocturnes. I couM have dashed my violin into a thousand splin- 
ters. My rival had won her. Unable longer to tolerate the humilia- 
tion, I went to the Bronx in search of a room. 



The Prophet 



HE came v/ith a message, a beautiful vision. For a few moments, 
the people listened as he told how the world might take the 
debris of the centuries and build a beautiful place, how the 
battlefields of life might be changed to gardens of love, how the 
thorns of existence might blossom into red roses. 

One man said: 

"Beautiful sentiments, indeed, but you are a hundred years 
ahead of your time. The future ivill glory in your dreams, but the 
present can have none of them. You were born too soon. 

This grieved the young poet. He had hoped his message would 
be as a spring-blessed oasis to thirsty desert-folk; so, he went away 
to give himself to the dreary task of changing his message, respinning 
his dreams, hoping thus to make himself a son of the present. At 
last he returned to the people and again spoke to them. They lis- 
tened attentively for a while, but seemed unimpressed. 

Some one told him: 

"You are a hundred years behind the times." 



36 The Color of Life 



Tragedy. 



WE were talking about tragedies. Ralph Payne, the war cor- 
respondent just returned from Europe, had asked what 
in each person's opinion was his most tragic experience. 
Payne, before permitting any of us to give our views, began a 
long description of what he had witnessed in the war-ridden coun- 
tries, dwelling on the horrors of the battlefield, on the sufferings 
of the masses, on the great national hatreds, and on the soulless 
destruction of beautiful cities. This, he told us, was the greatest 
tragedy his mind could conceive. 

But I was not impressed. I told my friends that war, to me, 
was not trag'^dy, though sad it was, but the baldest and crudest 
kind of stupidity. A great blunder (and war is a great blunder) 
is not tragic, but pathetic, and pitiable. 

Death, said one, was a great tragedy, especially when the person 
who succumbed was still a youth, but this also did not convince me. 
Death, I commented, v/as not a tragedy, but an adventure, since 
no human being has yet learned the great secret of death, solved 
the riddle of the universe, the end of all things, the mystery of life, 
of creation, of decay. These things, I said, were sealed books. Death 
waits for us all, and yet none knows what he holds in store. He 
beckons us, and yet -none knows his secret It follows then that he 
who dies takes a gambler's chance — there may be something for him. 
How can this be called tragic? 

I observed (though I was sure no one would agree with me) 
that tragedy is found in the little and not in the big things of life. 

■^ ♦J* 4* 

CARLO DE MARIANO, a black-eyed, olive-complexioned youth 
of twenty-four, a musician of promise, who was already attracting 
attention, said that he considered he had lived through what might 
be called a tragedy. We immediately became a collective ear, for 
it was only on rare occasions that Mariano referred to his past. 

"It happened," Mariano began, "when I was about fourteen 
years old." His beautiful, mellifluous voice thrilled me. _ "Music 
meant as much, if not more, to me in those days when it was a 
precious, almost unobtainable joy, I v/as a poor lad, whose fam- 
ily was living in abject poverty Really, gentlemen, I assure you 
that at times we were in actual want for the things that keep us alive. 
It meant that I must go to work. 

"At twelve, I was already employed in a factory, where 1 
was forced to toil at a machine for ten hours each day. There 
was I, a sensitive soul, with a growing love for the glories of 
music, living in a wretched environment and working in a soul- 
crushing mill. How my vision remained with me is something akin 
to an enigma. I cannot understand it. Everything seemed to con- 
spire against me; everything seemed destined to wither those ideals 
that had found a resting place in my heart. 

"But something in me kept the candle lighted. It flickered often; 
it threatened to die, but it continued to shed its light and warmth. 
When I was in my sordid home, I seemed to forget the filth, and the 
suffering, and let my spirit wander with the strain of a composition. 
In the morning, before going to work, I practiced on my violin ; on 
my return I took the precious thing again and toiled into the night. 
While at work, I could forget the roar of the machines; above the 
din, I could hear the themes of symphonies. 



The Color of Life 37 



"THESE WERE MY feelings when I decided I must go to 
one of the operas I craved what a great orchestra and singers 
of genius could give me. The Metropolitan .company, at that 
time, came to our city for but one performance each week. While 
the city was by no means a musical center, still there were many 
persons who desired to attend the performances; so many, in fact, 
that the house could not hold the crowds that beseiged the box office. 

"For one dollar, I learned, a ticket could be bought for a 
gallery seat. I also learned that it would be necessary to stand in 
line almost all night so that it could be obtained when the office 
opened at nine o'clock There v/ere often as many as fifteen hundred 
men and women who remained from midnight to the hour the sale 
of tickets began. 

"Undaunted, I took my place in line. I had been saving my 
pennies for many days; at last, I possessed the dollar, and with it 
safely tucked away in my pocket I awaited the hour, aglov/ with the 
feeling that that piece of paper would bring me beauties better than 
anything else life could offer. 

"Was I tired? Certainly. Had I not worked all day, and was 
I not weathering the elements in order to get the bit of cardboard, 
when I should have been asleep? At times, I felt a sense of drowsi- 
ness come over me, but the vision of what was in store kept me 
awake. At last, after many hours, I got my ticket. It then re- 
mained for me to rush back to the factory. 

"Well do I remember how arduous was that day's toil. There 
was I, a frail boy, working in almost a dazed manner, when the en- 
tire night before had been spent without a wink of sleep. I felt 
anxious to quit the job and rush home to my cot, but dared not — 
my people were poor; they needed the few pennies I earned. The 
chains of poverty kept me before that machine. I could throw 
off the drowsiness by thinking of the evening of soul-thrills that 
awaited me. 

"At last! It was time to go home. With a rush, I was gone. 
After a quick supper, I dashed to the theatre, where I could hardly 
wait for the doors to open. I would hear Aida; Caruso would sing 
the great aria. The supreme joy of life would be mine. At last! 
I was in my seat — there, up in the top gallery; up, up in the last 
row. 

"I was thrilled by the overture. It gave me something — inde- 
scribable, incomprehensible. It satisfied. And as I listened to that 
wonderful music, heavy weights seemed to drag down my eye-lids. 
I was tired. I had worked the day before. I was but a boy; I 
had not the strength to endure. The warmth added to my sleepiness. 
The music soothed my nerves. It called me to a rest alive with 

beautiful dreams. 

4f 4f -^ 

"THE CURTAIN HAD been up only a few minutes when I 
was asleep. And that aria, that beautiful aria which Caruso sings 
so feelingly, was lost to me. At times I would awaken v/ith a 
start when the applause was thunderous, but soon would my head 
nod its way to slumber. That, gentlemen, impresses me as the 
most tragic thing in my life. 

"It was a little thing; but to me it was great. I had paid 
such a price for that evening of music — and poverty, a factory, a 
hovel — sordid and crude — had stolen it from me." 

Mariano stopped talking. Looking around, he undoubtedly saw 
that we were all deeply touched. Even the correspondent confessed 
that the little tragedy that befell Mariano was as overwhelming 
as the great war of which he had spoken so fervently. 



38 The Color of Life 



The Scales of Justice. 

THE lad was in a courtroom for the first time. He saw a poor 
man rushed to the penitentiary and a rich man ushered to free- 
dom. He noticed the figure of justice over the judge's bench. 
The lad asked: 

"Why does that person always carry a pair of scales?" 
"My son," was the answer, "justice uses those scales to weigh 
the wealth of each person brought before the bar." 

W^hat Was Brought From the Mine 

N a death-dealing mine, where labored hundreds of fearless men 

whose lives were playthings between the teeth of the Dogs of 

Destruction; where miners wielded heavy picks to wrest the 
coal from the strong, greedy clutches of nature, and plodded, like 
ants, in deep shafts; in that mine there were two men better known 
than the rest because of their bulkier mountains of muscles, huger 
arms and mightier power. 

Had you chanced to stand nearby and had you peered through the 
dimness, you would have seen Jim Barnes, the older of the two; 
somewhere in his thirties, he presented a picture of a clothed pro- 
totype of the pre-historic period before man hat) discovered himself. 

His muscles were as hard as the handle cf his pick, and you 
would have noticed that his face was as stolid and characterless as 
the chunks of ore that fell at his feet. 

Near him worked Scott Malone, who was about to pass into 
his thirties. Like Barnes, he worked oullenly, saying nothing ex- 
cept frequently giving vent to his feelings in muttered profanity. 
There was a lump on his right cheek, caused by a large quid of to- 
bacco. He had a mustache which was brown-colored when rid of its 
dirt, but which was black with the heavy dust of the mine, dust 
that crusted and caked about his lips after having been made into mud 
through contact with tobacco juice and sweat. His cheek bones 
were high, almost hiding his eyes, and his jaws were powerful, grim 
and tight. 

The work did not seem to affect their bodies. They bore up as- 
toundingly under the long strain. In this they were unlike the 
others who groaned beneath the severej weight. But they were 
not without their marks and scars. 

These two giants, similar in many things, were as the king of 
the jungle — Jim Barnes a lion, feared by all, ready to strike down 
the weakest that came into his path, an-d unconscious of right or 
wrong he lived as his instincts would have him; Scott Malone, also 
harsh and merciless, but the hardness of the lioness who felt in- 
stincts of tenderness and love for her own, ready to die that her 
offspring might be safe. There was the difference between the pair. 

Each knew no fear of the other; Jim took Scott as a matter of 
course, while Scott, though friendly, had an undying hatred for Jim. 

^* ♦> ♦!♦ 

AT THE END of the day Scott and Jim emerged from the 
main shaft in time to get a final look at the few remaining rays of 
light from the sun which had already disappeared from sight. But 
their interest was in another direction — the tumble down hut at the 
end of the town — the shack which served as their home. 



The Color of Lif e 39 



Before entering the three-roomed shanty, the men, hungry as 
bears, walked around to the rear where they found a pan of water 
on a wooden bench. As soon as Jim's hands touched the water 
it turned black; before both were finished, it was inky. Fiercely 
applying a cloth towel, they rubbed off v/hat dirt the water let 
remain. 

"Come awn in if it's a hot supper yuh want," came from within. 

"Wait a minute," Jim Barnes blurted back. "What in hell's 
yer hurry?" 

There was no reply from Jim's woman, for she knew that even 
though he had asked a question, he didn't want an answer. 

Entering, a scowl on his face, Jim Barnes asked: 

"Yuh ain't trying to sass me, are yuh?" 

"I'm only a-tryin' ter feed yuh," came from Jim's wife. 

The sight of the food cut Barnes short, leaving unuttered an 
oath that was on the tip of his tongue. 

She sat to one side, furtively watching her husband and her 
boarder as they gulped dov/n half-chewed mouthfuls of meat, bread 
and potatoes. By this time Jim hardly knew of his wife's presence, 
but Scott gave her a slow glance, which, after all, was quite mean- 
ingless. 

After the meal was finished, Jim Barnes and Scott lighted their 
black, foul-odored pipes and smoked. The process of digestion and 
the tobacco smoke placed irresistible weights of drowsiness over 
Jim's eyes, forcing them to close; half asleep, he threw off his shoes 
and undressed and when he fell into bed the whole hut shook. 

Scott continued puffing at his pipe, sending clouds of smoke to 
the low ceiling. Jim's wife, after looking into the side room where 
lay her sleeping husband, said: 

"Thank Gawd, he's asleep; a-body'll have some peace o' mind 
now." 

Scott nodded his head. 

"If 'e didn't work so long an' so hard it'd be hell fer me. I'm 
glad 'e works all the livelong day so's I'm let alone, an' I thank 
Gawd he's off to bed as soon as 'e's eaten his supper. I often 
wished the Lord'd make him work on Sunday." 

Scott chuckled. 

"Just like a woman," he said. "Yuh don't mean a word yer 
a-sayin'." 

"Don't I?" Jim's wife inquired; "don't I? May the Lord strike 
me dead if I don't." 

Scott watched her as she cleaned the table and set things in 
order, noticing that she was paler than usual and that she walked 
with a limp, which he concluded was caused by a kick from Jim 
some days before. 

"Tain't no cinch," Scott said, in sympathy, as he again saw how 
she was aging; though but 30, she was streaked with gray, lines 
of toil were deeply set in her thin, long face and marks of drudgery 
and want could be seen. 

Jim's wife straightened as well as she could and answered: "Oh, 
I ain't kickin'; all I'm askin' is that he let me alone." 

"You've changed a whole lot since marryin' Jim — " 

"Yuh talk as though we got married last month," Jim's wife 
interrupted. "Yuh well know it's been ten years — yuh was there 
when it come off." 

"Yes," came from Scott. "But yuh know yuh was only a snip of 
a girl when yuh took 'im — and" — here Scott's memory recalled the 
past — ^"it was a mighty pretty girl yuh was." 

Angry, Jim's wife snapped: 



40 The Color of Lif e 



"It'd been the same thing if I'd a-married you, an' yuh know it," 
This was the first time in years that she had mentioned the fact 
of his having offered himself to her, and the words and emphasis 
cut him. 

"It'd been nothin' of the sort," said Scott. 

"It would and yuh know it. You're all alike, you men; you're 
six of one and a half dozen of the other; it's just a toss-up which 
a girl takes, an' it don't make no difference in the end. Yuh know 
I'm right, ain't I?" 
"That a lie!—" 

Jim's wife pointed her finger at Scott and exclaimed: "There! 
Yuh call me a liar. If I was your woman instead of Jim's you wouldn't 
*ave hollered that — " 

"What else would I 'ave done?" 
"Yuh wouM have biffed me in the jaw — " 
"I wouldn't. I say I wouldn't. I never beat a woman in my 
life—" 

"Yuh never had a woman." 
"Aw, let's quit this damn arguin'." 

And with that the conversation stopped. Scott smoked in si- 
lence; Jim's wife dried the dishes. 

Ten years before, Scott, a youngster of 19, had tried to get 
this woman; she, having her choice, took Jim, then about 24 and an 
earner of better wages. When Jim took the woman, Scott stepped 
aside, but with a curse on his lips. He feared Jim, who, at that time, 
was the stronger of the pair. But he hated him, and, had he dared, 
there would have been a battle. 

Jim always looked on his vsdfe as a possession, and as the 
years came to pass he came to feel all the surer of his ownership. 
A few years back, Scott was taken in as a boarder, Jim giving 
no thought to the fact that Scott had once hoped to marry his 
woman. Scott never tried to talk about it. Though he felt much 
and thought a great deal, still he said nothing. 

And, as he watched her finishing her work, Scott felt con- 
vinced that were the way clear, were Jim out of the way, he would 
offer himself in his place. But he never tried to take Jim's woman 
so long as she belonged to another, for he, too, looked on her as 
something owned. 

His anger gone, Scott said: 

"Yuh know, I ain't never done nothin' to you that I'd feel 
shame over, have I?" Not waiting for an answer, he added: "It's 
nothin' against you that I've got an' so long as you was another man's 
woman you wasn't mine, an' I let it go at that. Yuh done what 
yuh thought was best an' that settles it; but it's him I ain't got 
.no use fer," a jerk of his head indicated that he was speaking of 
the sleeping man in the next room: "he never was decent to yuh an' 
he shoved me aside when I almost had yuh." 

"Why did you let him?" Jim's wife asked, hardly able to sup- 
press a rasping laugh. 

"What could I a-done? There I was a kid up against a man 
— he could've taken me in his left hand an' broken me in two — 
but," and here Scott's eyes flashed fire, "he couldn't do it now. I 
bet yuh if we went to it I'd give him m.ore than I'd have to take!" 

"I ain I. so sure about that," Jim's Avife answered, smiling- 
wanly; "I don't know but that he'd be able to give yuh all yuh was 
lookin' fer — Jim ain't no easy one." 

"It ain't a fight I'm lookin' for," Scott corrected; "you're his 
an' that's the end. But if I only had a chance I'd show ynh what 
I'm made of an' what kind of a man I'd be to yuh." 



The Color of Life 41 



"Yer wise in keepin' yer distance from Jim. He ain't the kind 
to be monkeyed with," she warned Scott. 

"I wouldn't run from him if it ever come to anything. But 
what's the good of all this talk, anyv/ay? You've been his for ten 
years, an' you ain't played him dirt an' so far as I go you won't 
have to play him dirt." 

Scott's voice lowered when he added: 

"But tell me one thing; would yuh've taken me if he hadn't 
a-butted in?" 

Jim's wife thought a moment and slowly answered: 

"I guess I'd a-done it all .nght, but it'd b.een the same either 
way." 

"An'," Scott continued, "if you was to be a-standin' here alone 
an' I was to come to yuh an' ask yuh to be my woman, would yuh 
turn me down again?" 
• "I ain't alone," Jim's wife ansv/ered; "I got a husband." 

"But if yuh was alone — I said if — " 

"Ifs don't mean nothin'." 

"Neither will yer answer mean anything; I'm only askin' 
yuh a question." 

"Well, if I was by myself an' if I wasn't Jim's woman I'd think 
twice before I turned yuh down." 

"Then yah. don't think bad o' me?" 

Jim's vdfe shook her head. 

"I never done that." 

"Y-yuh don't — a-yuh don't think yuh like me a little even now, 
d'ye?" 

"I'm Jim's woman," was her answer. 

She was tired, and in no humor to continue what was to her a 
meaningless, impossible conversation; Walking into thet room i3i 
which her husband was sleeping, she left Scott alone, alone with 
his pipe and his thoughts. 

Jim's wife was a woman who expected nothing from men, ex- 
cept pain, and sorrow, and harshness; and all these she accepted 
as her lot, as a part of woman's inheritance from man. They were 
all alike — these men — and she took them without bitterness, just 
as the female of the primal forests, "ere the soul came shining into 
prehistoric night," and "ere he knew he felt, and knew he knew," 
was lifted by an arm stronger than her whole being and forced to do. 
And from the days of the forest to the days of today she has borne 
her load, no hatred or bitterness in her heart; with bowed head and 
sighing breast she has trudged through the centuries — "the ages 
of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive," Her world was 
a hut, and she asked for no more. 

Scott, on his cot in the next room, thought of the woman who 
had almost been his and who, while still with another, now intimated 
her willingness to be his, were she alone. Wasn't she really alone? 
Could it be possible that this burly man, Jim, was in truth her hus- 
band? Scott told himself this poor woman was not a wife — she 
was alone. His old hatred for Jim was set afire again, rekindled, 
the white flame of passion shooting high; Jim had taken the woman 
who was almost his and Jim was holding the woman who would 
be his, were she alone. Until that night they had been two equal 
forces — men of equal strength; and when two equal powers meet 
there is no result, but now he felt far stronger, mightier than Jim 
— his woman had given him hope, had uttered words that meant 
the possibility of change. 

But Scott knew not what to do. Were he a lion of the jungle 
he would have crept upon his enemy and let teeth settle the difference ; 



42 The Color of Life 



were he a man of savage days he would have used a club to decide. 
Scott was bewildered; his mind could see no road to his ov/n; the 
woman was here, in the next room, and still, he could not take her. 
She belonged to another and he had to bow his acquiescence. 

4* *J^ ^J* 

BEFORE DAWN the two men were up, ready for their day's 
work in the mine. Jim's wife had the coffee boiling, set a few slices 
of bread before them and wrapped two lunches in an old newspaper 
while they were eating. They left the shack in time to see the first 
rays of the rising sun pierce the darkness, but their interest was 
in another direction — the mine. 

Sleepy-eyed and yawning, Jim's wife paid little attention to the 
two men, and when the door closed with a bang, she felt relieved. 
Then commenced a day's work that included a hundred tasks, drudg- 
ery that wore her to the bone. 

Her day went as it had always gone; her tasks were as mean 
and sordid as ever. She gave little thought to Jim down in the 
mine, nor to Scott. She used to think of the danger they met every 
minute of the day, how their lives might be snuffed out, but that 
no longer worried her. She seemed willing to let things take their 
course and always accept the inevitable. 

It was afternoon when she heard something that almost paralyzed 
her with dread — it was a dull, deep roar. The hut rocked. A do^en 
dishes slipped off the kitchen table and were shattered in a hundred 
pieces. With a quick gasp, she ran into the open air. Hundreds 
of other women in the hundreds of shanties heard the same roar 
and felt the same tremor. Hundreds of wives started with terror 
and fright, as did Jim's wife. Hundreds of woman ran out of 
their huts, just like Jim's wife. And hundreds of women set up 
a wailing and howling when the truth dawned upon them, just as 
Jim's wife shrieked and cried. It was the mine! It had blown up! 
Death again came to the door of industry and collected his grim toll. 

Hundreds of women ran towards the main shaft. Jim's wife 
was among them. She tore her hair and bit her fingers until the 
blood came. Other women tore their hair. They stopped at the 
mouth of the mine, terror-stricken and frenzied; they were driven 
back by dense volumes of smoke that issued from the mine. 

Miners' wives do not hope for the best when they hear the 
earth rumble; they prepare for the worst. The hundreds of wo- 
m.en, sobbing, moaning women, felt that Death had done his work. 

A rescue crew appeared suddenly and prepared for work. They 
bravely entered the mine, heads covered with helmets. They were 
gone ten minutes before Jim's wife regained her senses. Slowly it 
became apparent to her that she was a widow, her Jim was dead. 

She forgot the years of pain and anguish, all her hardships, 
all the cruelties she had been forced to endure. She only knew 
that her Jim had been killed, that she was without a provider. She 
was alone! 

Scott's face flashed into her mind — he, too, was dead! Both 
gone, forever gone — her husband, Jim and the man who wanted to 
be her husband, who even said so the night before, who even 
offered to take her, were Jim out of the way. And now, they were 
dead — both of them. 

The minutes passed slowly. She awaited the appearance of 
rescuers bearing the bodies of Jim and Scott. She could see their 
remains, mangled and torn. 

Suddenly she saw the form of a veritable giant staggering through 
the smoke, bent upon reaching the open. She saw that he was mov- 



The Color of Life 43 



ing slowly. A second later she learned the reason — ^he was dragging 
the limp body of another. 

She ran closer to the mouth of the mine, and, to her astonish- 
ment, it seemed to her that the person was her husband. For a 
moment she did not know whether to be happy or sorry. The other 
man — she told herself — must still be down there — in the mine — dead, 
maybe. But when the man emerged from the smoke sh3 saw that 
he was Scott; and looking down, she realized that Jim was the 
unconscious man. 

Bleeding and dazed, Scott mumbled incoherently: 

"It's hell — hell — down there — it's hell — they're all gone- -they're 
all gone — " 

Seeing Jim's wife, he leaned toward her and panted: "I v/anted 
to leave him down there! Christ, I couldn't do it!" 



The Journey. 



HE commenced a long, hard journey. The youth strived to 
reach a glorious goal. He decided to go forward — to attain 
something beyond the reach of his brothers. They told him 
not to go. They said he was a fool on a fool's journey. They also 
said he would never reach the goal. But, he refused to be discouraged. 

The road was steep. Footsore, he trudged his way. 

"I must go on!" he exclaimed, when his heart became heavy and 
doubts troubled him. 

"I must go on I" 

But, there came the day when he could drag himself no farther. 
He came to feel the hopelessness of it all. 

"I must go back," he told himself. 

So, he turned. 

He saw that his starting place was far, far back. 

"To go back is too long a journey," he said. 

Something told him it would be still harder to return. For 
the first time, he saw that he had traveled a long distance. It glad- 
dened his heart; so, he fixed his eyes on the goal — and went forward 
again. His feet lost their soreness, his heart became lighter and 
he laughed. 

"It was hard to go forward, but now it is easier to do that than 
to go back," said he. 

The Conqueror Speaks. 

I AM King of Time, Master of Death, Father of Life! With a 
scythe in my hands, I walk in a world as limitless as space. I 
watched the soldiers of Rome go forth to conquer all that lives. 
I saw the soldiers of Rome fall by the roadside. They are no more. 
I saw the Greeks build a temple under the soft, blue sky. I saw the 
glorious columns reach up for immortality — and I gave it to them. 
For I give eternal life only to the beautiful. The conquerors have 
withered into nothingness. The masters of men have gone to dust. 
The great have fallen before me. For I give immortality only to 
things of beauty. Oh, Children of Time, if you would live forever, 
build a temple or sing a song! 



44 The Color of Life 

The Strange Mr. X. 

I DON'T remember just how I first came to know him. I think 
however, that he dropped into my apartment one Sunday 
afternoon while I was entertaining a group of friends. Who 
brought him, I cannot say. I think he came alone.. Instead of 
introducing himself to us, this stranger succeeded in getting all of 
us to tell him our names. One asked for his, but he politely evaded. 

He had a soft voice that always struck a responsive chord in 
me; is was alow, clear — well, I may as well quote Frank and say that 
it impressed one as being "Christlike," a voice that made you feel 
as though you were right close to the man. There was a suggestion 
of pathos in it. 

When he stood with his back to the window, the sunlight play- 
ing on his huge crop of brown hair, he gave one the notion that 
he was wearing a halo. The mysterious Mr. X. — so we soon named 
him — had a brown beard that took on a golden hue when he stood 
in the light. He wore one of those soft hats that may be crumpled 
into a ball. Most of the time he kept it in the pocket of his loose, 
black coat. 

The strange Mr. X. soon convinced us (without effort on his 
part) that he had a keen sense of appreciation and that his taste 
in art was faultless. He had a beautiful philosophy that pervaded 
liis opinions, thoughts, and actions. His code of ethics seemed to 
out-Christian Christianity. He made me think of Manson in Charles 
Rann Kennedy's "The Servant in the House", there was a sense 
of spiritual calm about his personality; a majestic serenity. 

♦jf ^ ^ 

I GREW to like him immensely. After an hour with him one 
felt as though he had taken a soul-bath. I remember how Frank — 
who worked with me on the New York Star — once swatted a fly 
while in the presence of my friend. Mr. X. actually winced, so intensely 
did he feel the suffering of that creature. "Life is precious," he 
almost sighed. 

Once, while we were walking, a pick-pocket attempted to rob 
my friend; but, caught in the act, the booty-seeker loosened his 
grip on the bills, letting them fall to the ground. Instead of calling 
a policeman, my friend leaned over, picked up the money and handed 
it to the thief. 

"You must need it or you wouldn't try to steal it," he said. 

I learned — purely through accident — that Mr. X. had been mar- 
ried. Without going into detail, he told me how his wife — a beau- 
tiful woman — had decided that her affection should go to another. 
Despite his great love for her, he calmly stepped aside, giving his 
full permission to what m.any may have considered an escapade. 

"She felt that I wasn't good enough for her," was his amazing 
statement, amazing because he was looked upon as the soul of good- 
ness. 

While we were walking again some days later, we were ap- 
proached by a beggar who implored help. What did my friend do 
but empty a handful of coins from one of his pockets. 

♦jt ♦}► -^ 

THE CITY editor had given me an assignment that I did not 
relish. I left the office and hurried to the Grand Central Station, 
where I took a train for Ossining, where Sing Sing is located. 

On the train I met my friend. He seemed very sad and down- 
cast. Learning that he was going to Sing Sing, I felt as though 



The Color of Life 45 



here was a Christ entering the temple to drive forth the money- 
changers. We were both going to an execution. The State was going 
to take a human life. "Life is precious" — those were the words I 
recalled as I looked at my friend. He had said this when a fly had been 
crushed. How intense his feelings must be when it is a human being 
who is to be placed in an electric chair by grim men determined to 
burn the life out of him. 

^ ^f ^* 

WE LEFT the station, my friend allowing me to lead the way. 
It was while we were walking along the road that I noticed him 
draw back suddenly. I soon learned the reason: he had almost 
stepped upon an ant. In this he reminded me of the Good Man in 
Victor Hugo's story. Mr. X., like the character in the novel, almost 
sprained his ankle rather than destroy precious life! 

I soon began to wonder why he was going to Sing Sing. Was 
it to voice a great protest against the taking of human life? Was 
it to call attention to an evil? Was it to point the way to love and 
brotherhood? 

These questions I asked myself as we walked that road. Imagine 
my indescribable astonishment when I later realized that my friend, 
the mysterious Mr. X., was the State Executioner. 



Mr. Blackstone's Peace Editorial. 

FREDERICK DILLON BLACKSTONE, editor of Everyperson's 
Magazine, was an important man. You could tell he was im- 
portant by merely looking at him. Importance oozed from every 
pore. He could strut sitting down. He felt as though all humanity 
looked to him for guidance and inspiration. 

Mr. Blackstone took himself very seriously. His opinions v/ere 
always uttered in a tone that implied finality. He gave the impres- 
sion that he was a man abreast of the times — yes, even radical. 
For instance, he believed that horses should not be Iseaten. Child- 
ren should be given an education, he often argued- "Doctors should 
not charge high fees Vv^hen they treat poor people," was the subject 
of one of his stirring editorials. In an after-dinner speech before the 
Bar Association, he declared that a judge should be careful not to 
send men to jail until he is convinced of their guilt. Before the 
Women's Club he announced pompously that the race depends on 
the mothers. "Without mothers the human race would soon die," 
was one of his startling epigrams. Like the British politician, 
this important person had genius for convincing himself of anything 
he cared to believe. 

^ V V 

MR. BLACKSTONE concluded that the world was wafting 
for him to say something on the war. An editorial — ah, a good one, 
a strong one — should be written, he argued inwardly. His monthly 
magazine reached many homes — peaceful hemes — so it followed that 
what he might have to say on the great war would carry weight. 

So thought the important Mr. Frederick Dillon Blackstone, editor 
of Everyperson's Magazine. 

Only after days of meditation did Mr. Blackstone feel that the 
time had come for him to write his great editorial. After ponderous 
consideration (everything Mr. Blackstone did was performed pon- 
derously), he decided to head his great editorial as follows: 

Peace at Any Price! 



46 The Color of Life 



The printers were instructed to use big type and not forget 
the exclamation mark. 

4f 4« -^^ 

HIS EDITORIAL was long— fearfully long He contended that 
the war should come to an end^ — at once! "This bloodshed must 
cease!" thundered the important editor of Everyperson's Magazine. 
He actually trembled from his own eloquence. 

"This war is un-Christian," he bellowed. 

"Isn't peace wonderful!" he enthused. 

"Think of it!" Mr. Blackstone wrote; "50,000 men are killed 
every day. If this war continues only 30 days more, it will mean 
a loss of 1,500,000 men — the flower of our manhood. This is the 
price in life alone. Think of the property destroyed, the money 
spent, the cities burned, the land laid waste! This war must stop!" 

It took him three days to finish it — and then he looked upon 
the child of his brain and told himself it was good. 

♦ 4* ^ 

TWO WEEKS BEFORE the magazine went to press, Mr. Black- 
stone heard the startling news that there were prospects of an early 
peace. This was distressing. His editorial — that wonderful piece 
of literature- -would be ruined by an early peace. 

He hoped and prayed that the rumor was unfounded, that the 
war might continue until at least two weeks after his magazine should 
have rolled from the presses. Of course, that meant 30 days more 
of war — and, at his own figures, a loss of 1,500,000 men. Better 
this than to have written his wonderful editorial in vain. It was 
so irritating to have peace come at such a moment. 

A day before press time, the awful news reached him. The 
war was ended. The slaughtering was over. No more anguished 
mothers. No more burned cities. 

There was nothing for Mr. Frederick Dillon Blackstone to do 
except order the foreman of the press-room to lift the tremendous 
editorial out of the forms. His masterpiece was lost to the world. 

As he sent the command to the pressman, the author of "Peace 
at Any Price!" groaned: 

"If only the war had lasted 30 days more!" 



\^anted~A Short Story 

t&T'D like to write a story," said Albert F. Scott, glancing up 
i from a letter which had just been delivered. "A nic^ 

story?" his wife asked, smiling at him. 

"No: any kind of a story," Albert answered, gravely. "He tells 
m_e I mav say anything I care to say. That's tempting, I must con- 
fess. It's not every m.ail that brings me an offer like this " 

In >-oock seriousness, she said: 

"While the editorial sun shines on you, it is wise to make hay 
and keep the pot a-boiling." 

"Yes, my dear. I wouM like to let th-'s dear editor have some- 
thing, but the trouble with me is that I'm as dry as the Sahara 
Desert. I really can't write a story; I haven't an idea." 

"Oh, come," she laughed ; "it's not as serious as that, for this 
story writing is a simple matter. Let us see if we can't get some- 
thing that v/ill make a story. A letter like this isn't to be sneezed 
at." 



The Color of Life 47 



"Good," exclaimed Albert, seating himself at the table and 
placing paper before him; "help me get a story, and if it goes, I'll 
divide the spoils." 

"Very well; now, then, what shall it be?" 

"What shall it?" Albert repeated. 

"Oh, I see; I'm to do it all," with a bow; "very well, I'm willing 
to try." 

♦:* ♦ *> 

FOR A FULL minute she remained in deep thought; then, her 
face lighting up suddenly, she said, quickly: 

"Once upon a time there was a foolish little man, who had a 
foolish vocation. This foolish little man wrote foolish little stories 
to help support his foolish little self and his foolish whims." 

"I "don't know what you are driving at," Albert drawled, "but, 
I must confess that's a pretty good lead. I may use it." 

"And," she continued, "this foolish little story writer had a 
fairly good memory, a quick eye and a well oiled typewriter, and 
managed in quite a passable manner, to express other people's origi- 
nalities — not a bad word — originalities — you might use it. So, this 
foolish little story writer succeeded in selling lots of foolish stories 
to editors whose business it was to print foolishness in magazines 
that were read by thousands of foolish women. 

"One foolish woman wrote a letter to this uninteresting story 
writer, and, to her surprise, she received an answer. It was a 
short, sweet note, offering thanks for her praise of a story that 
really didn't deserve it. And, as she was a silly woman, she wrote 
again." 

With an impatient wave, Albert said: 

"Oh, I anticipate; you are going to make it very commonplace. 
She, a foolish woman, writes again; they meet, and there is a 
mushy scene; they talk about going through life together — he work- 
ing for fame and glory, she helping ■ him by doing his typewriting 
and rolling his cigarettes; they marry; are soon divorced, and live 
happily ever after." 

"Nothing of the sort," she snapped;'; "how could you think 
me guilty of such a crime?" 

"Then he is married; meets her, hoping to get a story; she falls 
in love with him. Then comes the startling climax — ye gods — *I am 
discovered! She knows I have a wife, and am father of a chee-ildT 
She screams; 'In spite of all your writings and fame you are a. 
scoundrel and a deceiver, Mr. Fountleroy, and I hate you, I hate 
you! Go back to your wife and writings and write of the heart 
you have broken." 

"Oh, Albert, how you slander me," said his wife. "He wasn't 
married at all — quite single; but she — she was married — so she 
couldn't have been deceived; she was the one who began the thing 
in the first place." 

"Well, what happened?" Albert asked quickly. 

"Of course, they met — " 

"To be sure, they met — there couldn't be a story if they didn't 
meet. But what happened? That's what I want to know." 

"They met, and the foolish little story writer smoked a cigarette 
in a perfectly insipid manner. She stared at him — well, she was 
a foolish woman. It was inevitable that those two fools should fall 
in love — the wonder would be if they didn't Well, he told her he 
loved her, and she let him kiss her; and as they sipped wine in a 
cafe, they looked into each other's eyes and seemed to say; 'Ah,, 
we belong to each other; let us rid ourselves of this pest of a 
husband.' 



48 The Color of Life 



"Things moved rapidly — they always do when two fools get 
together. They met a few times, and talked a few hours, and soon 
convinced themselves that God had made them for each other. As 
for her husband — bah! They would leave — go to Paris — yes, yes, 
gay Paris — ah, this foolish little story writer would write love 
stories of Parisian studio life; he would surely sell much to the 
foolish editors — yes, it was all very simple. 

"So the day was set for the following Saturday; this foolish 
writer of silly stories and this simple-minded woman v/ere to go 
off — to Paris. 

"But news — that is, gossip — travels fast — it got to her hus- 
band — gossip always does. The world is full of anonymous letter 
writers, who believe it their sacred duty to keep husbands informed. 
He got a letter. But he wasn't a foolish husband; there are some 
sensible men in this world. If he had been a foolish husband he 
v/ould have run for his revolver, and then, another nev/spaper story. 
But he wasn't of the shooting kind. I said he was a sensible hus- 
band. 

"So he found the foolish young writer of foolish stories in his 
apartment — the foolish writer even had all his trunks packed; he was 
ready to go. That was quite a predicament for the husband of the 
foolish little woman; but he smiled — he had a sense of humor — 
like all sensible husbands. So he shook hands with the foolish lit- 
erary fellow and wished him a pleasant trip. 

"He told the writer of silly stories that he had long been hoping 
to get rid of his wife. 'I've been wanting an excuse for a divorce 
action, but I've never had luck enough to have her do something — 
I always was unlucky.' 

"This was strange, and it upset the foolish young writer. But 
the husband of the foolish little woman wasn't finished'. He had 
more to say. 'I only want you to grant me a favor,' the husband 
said: 'will you be kind enough to allow me the use of your name 
as corespondent? I wouldn't care to do it unless I got your per- 
mission.' 

"And to this he added: 

"'I wish you all the luck in the world, my dear sir; but no 
man can say I ever played him a mean trick, so, to clear my con- 
science, I have decided to come to you and honestly warn you of 
your danger. I am not going to be specific; I simply wish to tell 
you that I have not tried to deceive you into running off with my 
v/ife; I want you to know that I have warned you.' 

"And, in addition, this husband remarked that he wished the 
pair would have a pleasant journey; he hoped they wouldn't get 
seasick, and that if it wasn't asking too much, would they kindly 
send him. a few picture postal cards when they got on the other 
side? 

" 'I've been saving European postals for years,' he remarked; 
'they are so much better than ours.' 

" 'And,' this husband said, 'you will understand that from this 
day I look upon you as my best friend; you are going to do me a 
great service. It shows that some persons are willing to do their 
fellow man a favor once in a while.' 

"That husband shook hands with that silly writer of foolish 
stories and left him. The foolish story writer smoked another cigar- 
ette, bit his lips until they bled and then v^^rote a note to the foolish 
little woman, " telling her that he regretted he couldn't make the 
trip." 



The Color of Life 49 



HER STORY AT an end, she asked: 

"Don't you think that ought to make good fiction?" 

Albert shook his head and said: 

"No, you are too late; that story has already been written." 

"By whom?" 

"By that foolish writer of foolish stories." 



Nine O'clock. 

FIRST, I'll tell you the puzzling thing that happened. Then I'll 
tell you who did it. And last, I'll try to give you the cause for 
his action It was puzzling, to say the least. 

"What could it mean?" Deputy Sheriff Anderson inquired. 

"What's the reason for it all?" the turnkey asked. 

"Yes," said Superintendent Morton, "why should it be done?" 

For three weeks the house of correction had been the scen« 
of what appeared, for a time, to be an inexplicable mystery. 

Someone was stopping the clock and setting the hands at nin« 
o'clock. This did not happen once, but a dozen times a day. 

No one seemed able to explain why a man should have a mania 
for stopping the clock and setting the hands at nine. 

At last, unable longer to tolerate this enigma, Superintendent 
Morton ordered a man to keep watch from a secret place to lear.Ti, 
if possible, who was playing this odd prank. 

On Monday, Henrich Aarons, 40 years old, tiptoed to the clock — 
and stopped it. Then, with quick, nervous moves, he turned away. 

The man was discovered. 

He was taken to the county hospital where he was confined in 
the observation ward. In a few hours the physicians in charge wera 
convinced that Aarons, though utterly harmless, was insane. 

This morning, Aarons was taken to the State Insane asylum. 

Now comes an exceedingly difficult question. Why did Aarons 
have a mania for stopping clocks? True, he was crazy, but there 
must have been a reason for this particular act of eccentricity. 

I investigated and learned one version. 

Aarons at one time was a professional gambler. He had a lovely 
wife who was about twelve years bis junior. She despised her hus- 
band's means of earning his livelihood. But Aarons loved gambling 
— and he was passionately fond of his beautiful wife. 

One day she placed her position before him in blunt English. 

"You must choose between us. Either you shall have me alone, 
or you shall have gambling — not both. 

Aarons was in a quandary. He did not think his wife meant 
to do anything extreme. 

Once she turned to him and said: 

"I'm going out for a walk." 

"When will you return?" Aarons asked. 

"Oh," she said, indifferently; "at nine o'clock." 

And without further ado, she departed — never to return. 

After she had been gone an hour, Aarons felt there had beem 
an ominous tone in his wife's voice when she said "goodbye." 

He pulled out his watch and waited and waited for nine o'clock. 
He waited, and v/aited, and waited. Gradually, slowly, the hands 
crawled to the stated time. But still his wife did not return. Slowly 
the hands passed nine o'clock. 



50 The Color of Life 



A great fear came upon him. He did not want to see the hands 
pass the nine o'clock mark. So, in desperation, he turned back the 
hands of time. Whenever those hands went a few minutes beyond 
nine, Aarons turned them back again. 

From then on, Aarons couM not look at a watch or a clock 
without feeling an irresistible desire to turn back the hands to nine 
o'clock. 

He forgot everything. What little money he had soon disap- 
peared. He became poverty-stricken. Some weeks ago he was ar- 
rested for vagrancy and sentenced to ninety days in the house of 
correction. 

An-d while serving his time he still continued turning back the 
hands. This is the version. I don't know how true it is, but it sounds 
logical. 

Venus and Mars. 

VENUS, lonesome for the moment, turned to Mars for conver- 
sation. 
"How wonderful it is!" she exclaimed; "what greater joy 
than to be part of the vast universe — a thing without end and be- 
ginning. 

"You always were emotional," said Mars; "but, nevertheless, 
it is wonderful to fly through space, dancing the dance of the planets." 

"Yes, and do you notice that we have new friends join us from 
time to time?" 

"To be sure, but it is hard to keep track — they come so fre- 
quently. By the way did you notice that last one down there?" 

Why, no; where?" 

"Off to the right of Old Sol; it has been christened 'World'— 
rather a funny name, isn't it?" 

"Well, well," said Venus, "and hov/ long has it been with us?" 

"Oh, it's still an infant; only about five or six millions years 
old." 

"And to think, I never saw the tiny thing before." 

"There are funny little ants on that little ball and they think 
the funniest thoughts you ever imagined." 

"What?" Venus asked. 

"For instance, they think v/e were made for them; they have 
an idea they are the center of the universe." 

Venus laughed. 

"How funny!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes," said Mars; "if ever time hangs heavy and you desire 
a little amusement, watch that little ball." 

The Prisoner. 

I MET my striped friend in the penitentiary, v/here I was getting 
my first glimpse at the soldiers of misfortune. As we talked 
there appeared a tall, harsh-looking man, with heavy tread. 
"A bad case," said my friend. "He's not a man; he's our pris- 
oner. He must wait on us. He must feed us and see that we are 
properly clothed. He is held responsible for us. He must even kill 
us, when told to. Yet, he thinks he is a free man. I tell you, Warden 
Smith is the most pathetic case in this pen." 



The Color of Life 51 



Hero or Fool™ Which? 

A FIRING squad led Johann Schmidt to a wall and shot him. 
Some minutes later his body was thrown into a hastily dug 
trench. The officer in charge then turned his attention to the 
report that must be sent to his superiors. 

In concise language, he gave the facts, telling how Johann 
Schmidt had attempted to desert his regiment while it was taking 
an important to"wn in Belgium. The enemy had been driven before 
the German steam-roller and it was while the men from beyond tha 
Rhine were taking possession that Schmidt had slunk away to a 
strip of woodland nearby. Caught, he had admitted his guilt, and, 
added the officer, there remained nothing to be done except to order 
out a firing squad. 

■^ "^ ■*$*■ 

THESE WERE THE crude facts. The officers' report was true, 
but it did not tell all. And yet it must be admitted that even if the 
incident had been described in its entirety it would have had no 
effect on the outcome. 

In addition, sentimentality doesn't look good in an officer's report. 
Militarists always talk of blood and iron — never of trifling things 
like love, comradeship — or dolls. War is war; war is serious business; 
it can't tolerate foolishness. Nonsense is punishable by death. 

Schmidt told me his story some hours before they shot him. 
He related his narrative in a calm, unaffected voice — as though he 
were speaking of an imagined character rather than of himself. 

'*$'' "^ "^ 

HERE IS HIS story: "When the order for mobilization first 
came I was at work in my carpenter shop where I had served 
the towners since I was old enough to leave the village school. 
Outside of the time I had spent in the army, I had known no other 
place than that beautiful little town of simple folk. 

"The army, in peace tim.es, did not strike me as being any- 
thing particularly bad. It meant work, drudgery, discipline, phy- 
sical training, drill and the like. No matter how distasteful some 
features may have been, still they were endurable. 

"But when I was called to the colors, all things changed. A 
gun was placed in my hands and I was ordered to kill every human 
being who was labelled 'the enemy.' I did not select my 'enemy'; 
someone else did that for me. It remained for me to shoot all men 
v/ho v/ore uniforms unlike mine; to kill all non-combatants who be- 
haved in a manner that indicated they resented the presence of 
invaders; to burn farm houses and towns when directed to do so. 

^ ♦• ♦*♦ 

"AT FIRST, WHEN the gun was handed to me, I felt the blood- 
lust. I suppose that when the weapon is first put into our possession 
there's something in us — way down deep — that makes us feel like 
killling anything that lives. From a peaceful workingman I had 
been transformed suddenly into a beast. I wanted to kill, be it 
only a dog. I'm sure you understand what I mean. 

"Well, I rushed forward with the rest of them, tearing gashes 
into the ranks of the enemy. We seemed invulnerable. Nothing 
seemed able to withstand our assaults. Our onrushes could not be 
halted. We took town after town. 

4» •* ■* 

"FOR SEVEN HOURS our artillery had bombarded this town. 
Heavy shells had shattered its buildings, killing hundreds of oc- 



52 The Color of Lif e 



cupants. It took hours before the cannon defending the town wer« 
silence'd. At last we were ready to storm the place. 

"We sang and yelled as we rushed forward. Thousands of 
us — wild, blood-thirsty animals who had but recently been peaceful 
citizens — were trying to outdo one another in the work of destruction. 

"It was while we were dashing down one of the streets that I 
came upon this" — .and here he drew something from the inside of his 
coat. Pointing to it, he added: "The sight of thousands of dead, 
the scenes of ruin, the suflFering and the dying had not touched 
me as did this." 

Again he pointed to it. The object in his hands was nothing 
more than a rag doll. 

<- ^ <* 

"I "WAS ABOUT to step on it when I first saw it," he continued, 
calmly, "but something held me back. It looked so sad as it lay 
there, sprawled out on the ground like a dead child. I leaned over 
and picked it up. I felt like a sentimental fool, but I simply had 
to obey that something in me that told me all the tragedy of life, 
all the suffering of the innocents were symbolized in this bit of 
rags, and that it was for me to save it from the feet of the hurry- 
ing soldiers. I looked at it for a moment and slipped it under my 
coat. 

"I decided I must return to the tasks of war. There was killing 
to be done — our commanders had ordered it and there was nothing 
for us to do but obey. I had gone but a few yards when I stumbled 
over the body of a child — the little innocent that had owned that doll. 
One of our bullets — mine, maybe — had snuffed out its life. Isn't 
M funny how a man, a soldier, will become mushy at times? 

"I tried to convince myself that this was but a trifling incident 
in war — and war is a serious business; it isn't a thing for weaklings. 
But that little rag doll nestled against my heart and seemed to say: 

" 'You killed that little mother of mine — you!" 

"Now, it was very foolish of me to think like that, but what 
was I to do? I had myself convinced in no time that I was a mur- 
derer. I felt as though I had killed my own little girl — a child 
of five whom I had left at home. I hate to talk like this — it sounds 
so mushy, doesn't it? Soldiers should talk about attacks and coun- 
ter-attacks — not about babies and rag dolls. Maybe the excitement 
upset my nerves so that I allowed the little rag doll to convince me 
I should take it home — to my baby — so that doll might have a new 
mother. I know it's all nonsense; I know it, but I suppose I wasn't 
in my right mind. 

<♦ "^ 4^ 

"WITHOUT STOPPING to consider the consequnces, without 
bothering to reason over the fact that I didn't stand a ghost of a 
chance, I started back, headed for the woods to the east. Of course, 
I was caught and here I am — a man, a soldier — and I am going to 
die over a little rag doll. I'm a sentimental fool. 

"I'm going to ask only one favor — and a little one at that. 
I'll ask them to send this doll home to my child. I think they'll 
do it — and curse me at the same time for being a mushy fool. I'm 
going to keep it under my coat when they put me in front of the 
wall. 

"A little rag doll," he mused slowly. "Not v/orth a copper 
coin — only good enough to die for. Tell me the truth," he com- 
manded: "Don't you think I'm a fool?" 

What could I say? 



T he C olor f Lif e 53 



When Millie "Cashed In." 

ILLIE KING "cashed in" the other day. She died of some- 
thing or other — nobody knows just what. Yesterday after- 
noon, at an undertaking establishment near Seventh Avenue 
and Thirty-fifth street, her friends conducted a little funeral. 

Everybody knew Millie King. Rain, snow or hail, she was to ba 
seen along Thirty-fourth street every night, plying the profession 
that Thais, Delilah and Magdalene followed. Millie had been one of 
the sisters of the streets for almost six years — she was twenty-eight 
when she "turned in her chips." 

There were about fifty — mostly women — at the services. They 
gathered in the solemn-faced undertaker's small, "dim room to show 
that they "felt right" toward one of their own and to take a final 
look at Millie's remains. 

Dottie Host didn't have her cheeks as red as usual. Slim Eva 
refrained from chewing gum for an hour. Charlie didn't give his 
Fatimas a single thought. The others made sacrifices that were 
as nerve-trying. For a while very little was said; it's hard to talk 
in the presence of the dead. 

Millie was dressed in white. A kind soul had placed a lilly in 
her hand. 

"Ain't she sweet," Eva gasped; "she soitenly looks pretty." 

"She was some looker in her day," Charlie answered. "I know. 
I taught her everything she knew." 

Eva was silent, gazing at the huge flower cross, on which were 
the words: "Rest in Peace". 

"She was a good kid," Charlie added. "She always done what 
was right with me. I never had to say an unkind wora to 'er. There 
ain't many like 'er in Noo Yawk. Take ninety-nine out of a hundred 
an' teach 'em the business an' they'll double-cross a feller. But not 
Millie. She certainly was straight." 

A policeman strolling by the place looked in for a moment and 
passed on. Charlie returned his nod. 

"He knew Millie as well as I did," Charlie told Slim Eva, "an' 
he never had trouble with 'er. He knew 'er since the first day she 
went out, an' she always done the right thing by him. Ask him, an' 
he'll tell you how straight a kid she was." 

Red-faced, stout Hatcher, who conducts a "house of chance," 
was seated in the row of chairs in front of Charlie. He turned arouni 
and said: 

"Charlie, I soitenly am sorry for yuh. Yuh've lost a good kid." 

Charlie shook his head mournfully. 

"Many a day she's been in my place, as you know, Charlie, and 
she always played a straight game. She could lose a twenty-spot 
without winkin' an eye. She was game. An' nobody could ever say 
she tri-ed to do dirt with the cards. She played square, an' if sh« 
lost, she lost. She never beefed once." 

Hatcher, noticing a pretty girl of about seventeen in the front 
seats, Inquired: 

"Who's that young dame, Charlie?" 

Charlie leaned forward and whispered. 

"That's Mary, her sister." 

"She sure is a peach. I ain't ever seen 'er before." 

"I never had a peep at 'er until today," Charlie returned. "She's 
been at school — " 



54 T he C olor f Lif e 



"I'll betcha a ten-spot Millie paid 'er way," Hatcher interrupted. 

"Yuh hit it right, old man. Every red copper came from Millie; 
To tell you the truth, I didn't know a thing about it. She should've 
told me, but then I won't say anything because it was for a good 
reason. Now that she's alone — poor kid — I'm going to help her." 

Charlie whispered something in Hatcher's ear, who put a finger 
to his lips, which meant he v/ould see to it that so far as he was 
concerned it would be "mum's the word." 

"She don't know — yet," Charlie said. 

A black-frocked man entered the room and proceeded to mumble 
what preachers usually say at funerals. That attended to, the crowd 
departed. 

At the door Dottie Host applied something to her cheeks that 
brought the desired hue. Slim Eva deposited a stick of chewing gum 
in her mouth. Charlie lit a Fatima. 

The little funeral of Millie King was over. 



The Rise of Frank Dunne 

IF the city editor were to tell Frank Dunne to write a story about 
the moon being made of green cheese, he wouldn't ask questions. 
He would get facts, statistics, interviews and pictures to prove that 
the moon is made of green cheese. And here's the funny thing of 
it all — he would believe his own story. Yes, Frank Dunne was an 
ideal newspaperman. Temperamentally, he fit in with the order of 
things. 

A newspaper's policy was Dunne's religion. The editorials 
were as gospel. He swore by the view point — everything that the 
paper stood for was right, was just, was as it should be. If he 
had been told to "cover" the crucifixion he would have written a 
story of a "long-haired agitator paying the penalty of his criminal 
views;" he would have told how "a certain Jesus Christ had incited 
the people to riot"; had said things "against the government," had 
"criticized established institutions and customs"; he would have 
given the impression that Jesus deserved his fate. 

When Dunne covered a strike, the office was always satisfied. 
There wasn't a man on the Morning Times who could write a meaner 
story. He could sneer at a mass of starving strikers, accuse them 
of "squandering their salaries on drink," charge them with all manner 
of crime and violence — yes, he was a favorite in the Times office. 
Even the big chief — one couldn't conceive of a more unpleasant 
person — always smiled at Frank Dunne and bade him the time of day. 

A rare specimen, his 135 pounds throbbed with energy, his sharp 
eyes were ever on the watch for stuff the office wanted, his ears 
heard everything, and if they didn't his imagination would come to 
the rescue. 

This Frank Dunne was the star policy man; whenever anything 
particularly dirty was wanted, the office could always rely on Dunne, 
who would write the stuff — and, above all — swear by it. He was 
extraordinarily able at stories that meant systematic cam- 
paigns of publicity, for he could write on the same subject for weeks 
and weeks at a stretch, and never be at a loss for something to say. 
A word would often give him enough material for two columns. If 
there were some sort of a franchise the office was anxious to get 
for some local kings of finance, Dunne would be set to work on the 
publicity. He had genius for making the wrong appear right. 



The Color of Life 55 



Considering that he was a newspaperman, Dunne was fairly 
well paid; he said he was getting $40 a week; of course, he lied, 
for I knew it for a fact that he was getting $35. Of course, he 
was always broke because he was always mingling with men of 
wealth and means, and didn't fancy being considered one not of 
their class. He would just as soon pay for a ten dollar dinner as 
not; he wouldn't hesitate to invite some wealthy friends to a cham- 
pagne supper that would keep him in debt for weeks. Dunne love'd 
the brothers of Have; he worshipped them, and nothing pleased 
him better than to be with them. He was always at some sort of 
an affair; and he always gave the impression that he belonged there. 

♦ 4^ ^J* 

JUST BEFORE DUNNE became the star policy man, he fell 
in love with a girl who worked in a local department store. She 
v/as a pretty — no, she was a beatitiful — girl, just passing nineteen. 
He took her to the theatre a number of times, always treating her 
as best he knew how; and she, sweet Laura Knight, appreciated him 
immensely. She was a poor girl and, I repeat, she worked in 
a big store — and that means she worked at starvation wages. I 
believe she got six dollars a week; I'm sure it wasn't more. 

Dunne told her many pretty things; he told her he loved her; 
yes, he even said she was "the best girl in the world." But he didn't 
say anything about marriage, though let it be said in fairness, he 
thought of it. He really considered it a splendid thing to have 
her as his wife. Yes, she would be the ideal companion for life, 
he concluded. But, somehow, he felt that Laura Knight was a 
girl he could always get, so there need be no hurry. He v/as con- 
vinced that if he didn't marry her she would be a spinster for the 
rest of her days — there are lots of men who believe that. So, he 
concluded it would be best for him to wait — maybe a year, possibly 
two or three, but no longer. 

Laura Knight loved him, but she was a retiring sort, who didn't 
understand how to use her wonderful charms. Not knowing how to 
influence him, she let him have his way about things, and as he 
said nothing she simply played a waiting game. 

♦?► ♦ ♦ 

SIX MONTHS LATER, Dunne married, but he didn't marry 
Laura Knight. He married an insipid female, a parasite to the 
core, but everybody thought Dunne was a lucky fellow; not every 
reporter has "luck" enough to marry a rich man's daughter. It 
happened this way. While at an affair, he was introduced to a 
young lady who was the daughter of the unpleasant owner of the 
Morning Times. This owner — Bennington Eraser — liked Dunne, as 
I've already mentioned, and when he learned that his daughter and 
Dunne were friendly, he smiled. When he learned, some weeks later, 
that his daughter would like to become the wife of Dunne, he didn't 
object. 

"Of course," said Mr. Bennington Eraser, "this young fellow 
hasn't any money, but I tell you he has a future. He knows what's 
what. He hasn't any money, but he has the push and go that will 
bring him money. That young fellow is all right." 

And he blessed him. And they married. And Dunne forgot 
about Laura Knight. Laura Knight cried a little, and sobbed a 
little more, and philosophically decided to make the most of it all. 

'^ ♦+♦ ^?* 

DUNNE BECAME ONE of the most important men on the 
Morning Times; he became dictator of policy; he outlined campaigns; 
he ruled politics. The big chief trusted Dunne's judgment. 



56 The Color of Life 



The paper was a gold mine. Dunne was on the inside. So, 
Dunne became wealthy. He got mixed up in a number of question- 
able deals, but he wasn't afraid, for he held a mighty club over all 
his enemies — the club of publicity. He couM drive any man out 
of the county, he once boasted. 

He got interested in a number of propositions; he invested money 
in street railway stock; he bought shares in a great manufacturing 
concern; he even bought a quarter interest in a great department 
store. 

Dunne found the Morning Times was of great help in his busi- 
ness ventures, enabling him to get almost anything he wanted. Of 
course, when it came to the lawmaking bodies, he was a terror. All 
feared him. 

^ -^ -^ 

BUT SOME PEOPLE will persist in being reformers, Dunne 
or no Dunne. And it came to pass that a number of reformers got 
together and formed an organization with the purpose of going into 
politics. An opposition paper decided to take up the cudgels for 
this reform element, and as a result circulation grew for the oppo- 
sition paper. 

This was a distressing state of affairs, though it didn't harm 
the finances of the Morning Times; this paper could always depend 
on the big advertisers — what more could one hope for? When 
campaign time came again, Dunne saw that the reformers were 
getting too strong. They were actually threatening to capture po- 
litical powers; yes, it appeared as though they would capture the 
powers of government. Dunne's paper fought tirelessly, Dunne 
himself writing many editorials. 

The reform Governor was elected, and then, Dunne realized 
that many amazing things were about to happen. The reformers, 
in their platform, distinctly said that if elected they would fight 
for the passage of a minimum wage bill. Dunne, interested in a 
department store, didn't fancy the idea of a minimum wage bill 
passing the Legislature, so he fought, but somehow his paper didn't 
carry the kind of stuff he wanted. 

"I tell you, Dunne," said Mr. Eraser, "we haven't got the man 
who has the right angle on this minimum wage business." 

Dunne agreed with him. 

"We aren't getting the right kind of stuff," Eraser repeated. 

"I don't know of a better man to put on this story," said Dunne, 
with a growl. 

"Oh, that's easy enough, Dunne," said Eraser, with a wink; 
"we've got the right man — " 

"Who?" 

"You." 

This was a neat compliment, Dunne thought, and it pleased hint 
immensely. Dunne put fire and vigor into the fight. The men 
behind the paper chuckled, for they saw they were getting what 
they needed — "the right angle." 

^ ♦*♦ ^* 

DUNNE FOUGHT LIKE a tiger— he threatened, he bullied, he 
lied, he screamed, he moaned, he used dozens of cartoons — he did 
everything in his power to work up sentiment against the bill. He 
roared at the reformers, accusing them of all sorts of crimes; 
he made life uncomfortable for them. The headlines, day after 
day, week after week, counted. Dunne brought up a number of 
side issues to cloud the real issue. He sort of muddled the water, 
said Eraser. 

"You're doing fine," said Eraser; "keep it up." 



The Color of Lif e 57 



And Dunne obeyed. "The trouble," said Dunne, "is that we are on 
the defensive. Even though we are pouring the hot shot into them, 
they are still on the offensive." With a thump on the table, he 
added: "I want them to be on the defensive! Not me!" 

Mr. Fraser liked the idea, but he didn't know just what to 
'do. Dunne solved this problem. Attack them — simple enough. He 
made a number of sensational charges against the floor leaders and 
the Governor. He made serious charges, the kind that make people 
talk, and it wasn't many days before the Governor and his fighting 
lieutenants were on the defensive; they literally had to fight to 
save their reputations — and the result was — well that doesn't matter; 
the point is that the bill was forgotten; the point of attack shifted; 
the issues were muddled and the girls were left where they always 
were — Avith starvation wages. This, it was generally agreed, was 
a master stroke on Dunne's part. 

He had his way about things. He had argued that girls would 
"never go wrong on account of low wages if they weren't bad by 
nature." He had argued that "low wages do not drive girls into the 
street." His department store was saved many thousands of "dollars. 
Oh, by the way, Laura Knight was one of the employes in Dunne's 
store. Dunne met her one night and was astonished to learn that 
she had become a prostitute. Strange things happen, Dunne thought. 
"She never was any good or she wouldn't have become that." And 
Dunne might have married her! What a narrow escape! 



The Man Who Wouldn't Talk. 

WHEN James Cronin was sentenced to a twenty-year term, 
he swore: "So help me God, this is the last time I talk." 
No one paid the least attention to this statement, for all 
agreed it was quite meaningless. But, when James Cronin was 
brought to the penitentiary, the first thing the men in authority 
learned was that this peculiar wretch meant to make good his threat 
— he wouldn't talk. 

Warden Pollock concluded that a week or so of silence would 
end this ridiculous affair. Surely, he would talk. But, he didn't. 
Cronin refused to utter a word. 

He was the best sort of inmate — obeyed rules, troubled no one; 
did his work in a willing manner. He was a fine prisoner, this James 
Cronin was — that is, fine from the viewpoint of the warden. But 
Cronin wouldn't talk. 

The months passed; James Cronin continued his silence. To 
be sure, the newspaper editors were quick to see the news value 
of this strange convict, so they assigned reporters to write "human 
interest stories" about this man who wouldn't talk. And, of course, 
the reporters wrote; and, like good reporters, they never went near 
the silent convict. 

Warden Pollock read all their stories and had to confess they 
were readable, even though the reporters never approached the sub- 
ject which had permitted their imaginations to have full play. 

They put that subtle thing called atmosphere into their stories; 
and this Warden Pollock found exceedingly interesting. They also 
did some "fine writing," making it appear as though Convict 79&8 
were some thought-besotted melancholy person. 

"This thin, wiry, glassy-eyed man of mystery has closed his 
soul in a tomb of silence," said one reporter in a story that covered 



58 The Color of Life 



almost two columns. "He has found the world to be a vale of tears; 
be has learned that mankind is jungle-spirited; that civilization kills 
the light in the poet's heart and stifles the laughter of children. With 
a heart suffering the pangs of remorse, with a conscience weighted 
with sin, with hopes blasted and ideals crushed, with love cold and 
passionless, he now spends the weary days of his life in a prison cell 
— silent, dumb, dead!" 

When Warden Pollock read this, he admitted he was touched. 
Somehow, he felt that his silent convict was a character who had 
lived an extraordinary life, who thought deep melancholy thoughts 
and whose soul was alive with the immensities of sorrow. He sent 
the paper to Convict 7998. Cronin read it slowly; tears gathered 
in his eyes — but he did not utter a word. Without even moving his 
lips, he returned the paper. 

The years passed, and this convict continued his silence. At 
almost regular periods the newspapers told wierd, interest-compelling 
stories of this man. His fame spread rapidly; before long, he be- 
came a national character. He was pointed out to gaping inquisi- 
tive visitors; some, for the sake of the experience, spoke to him, but 
he never ansv/ered. He would not talk. 

A poet was attracted to this silent sufferer. This poet's name 
was known wherever people spoke English. He penned a wonderful 
poem; it reached the hearts of the people. It was pregnant with 
suffering, a rare work of art. 

An artist gained permission to paint a portrait of Convict 7998. 
He worked weeks and weeks; his picture was a masterpiece. It 
won the salon medal. In the eyes of this convict, the artist placed 
the glow of twilight. Behind the eyes the picture seemed to mirror 
a soul bent on self-abnegation. The lips were sealed; closed tightly; 
drawn down at the sides; silence! death! mystery! all of these were 
expressed in this picture. The convict was permitted to gaze upon 
the portrait before it was removed; but, he did not say a word. 

The prison chaplain said this convict was resting with God — 
facing the holy light of the Creator; he felt that here was a latter- 
day saint; rather, here was the sort of martyr that gave self to 
the lions rather than renounce Him. When he stood before this 
man of silence, the chaplain felt as though he were an inferior, that 
here was a man who showed, in his every move, his love for God, 
his faith in the ultimate. 

At last there came the day when the prison doors were to open 
for this man who wouldn't talk. Warden Pollock spoke to him. 

"Your day has come," he said; "and now you are to go into the 
world — free! You have not spoken a word during all these years." 

The other shook his head slowly. 

"I have been wondering what were the thoughts that occupied 
your mind during these j'ears of silence," Warden Pollock continued. 
"Didn't you feel an irresistible desire, on many occasions, to break 
this awful silence?" 

James Cronin nodded his head. 

"I feel that you had some things you were almost insane in your 
anxiety to say; and yet, you did not talk. Surely there was one 
thing, above all, that you desired to say — something. Tell me, what 
was it?" 

James Cronin cleared his throat. Warden Pollock leaned for- 
ward a bit, so anxious was he to catch the first words to come from 
this man of silence. 

In a solemn tone, the convict asked: 

"Have yuh got the makin's?" 



The Color of Life 59 



Christine de Guichard. 

HEN I answered the ring of my phone-bell, I learned it was 
my friend, Harry Monroe, who was calling me. 
"I'm coming down as I promised," he announced. "And 
if you don't mind, I'll bring someone along with me." 

Harry — who, like myself, worked on The Press — then informed 
me he thought I would be glad to meet him — Leroy Harding, a former 
newspaper man. 

"Leroy Harding?" I repeated, slowly. Then after a few mom- 
ents of reflection, I continued: "do you mean the Leroy Harding 
who was the husband of Christine de Guichard, the opera singer 
who died last year?" 
• "Jove!" came from the other end; "you've got a memory!" 

"Not at all," I protested; "the reason I know is simply be- 
cause Christine de Guichard, when she lived, was my favorite. I 
shall never forget her." 

Almost enthusiastically, I went on: 

"You know well enough, Harry, that my library of records con- 
tains more of de Guichard's selections than any two opera singers 
combined." 

"We'll discuss that later," Harry announced, hanging up the 
receiver. 

<* *:* *t* 

CHRISTINE de Guichard! How that name always thrilled me! 
As I walked from that phone, I recalled her as she was Iwhen 
she appeared in my favorite operas. I saw her — a beautiful 
woman, a great singer, a mature genius. When she died, I felt 
that there was no person who could take her place, who could stim- 
ulate me, delight me as did this rare interpreter of the noblest melo- 
dies and tone-thoughts of the master composers. 

That was the reason I turned to a machine that could bring 
her vocal art back to me, a machine in which her amazing technique 
was exquisitely recorded. She was gone, but her spirit would remain 
in a thing of wheels and springs, a thing of such automatic perfection 
that it could reach out and take something from Death himself. 

Every record that bore the name of Christine de Guichard was 
in my collection. Isolde's Love Song awaited me whenever I de- 
sired it. Arias from the operas of Verdi, Puccini, Donizetti and 
Leoncavallo were always ready — and Christine de Guichard rendered 
them all, as only she could, with finish, and with the artist's attention 
to enunciation and expression. ^ 

4* -^ -^^ 

AND here was I to meet the man who had been de Guichard's 
husband! I knew the bare facts. He had been a newspaper man. 
Attracted to her, he served her well, obtaining a considerable amount 
of publicity for the diva. Something about him appealed to her; 
she appealed to him; they married. Undoubtedly his work as her 
manager helped her greatly, but I believe, however, that a woman 
gifted with a voice of such extraordinary richness could have 
done as well even had she had no one help bring her before 
the public. The voice v/as there — and the voice, like the play, is 
the thing. 

4e ^* ^* 

I DECIDED to put on a de Guichard record and watch him cas- 
ually to see what its effect would be. I thought of the strangeness of 
it all — here was a man whose wife was gone forever, but who would 



60 The Color of Lif e 



return to him through ridiculous bits of steel and wood. Indeed, the 
thing Man makes is often greater than Man himself. 

"How does he feel?" I asked myself. I could not answer the 
question. His feelings were a mystery 

I put on a love song, v/hich Christine de Guichard rendered 
beautifully. 

"Down by the running water, 
I sing my song of love to thee." 
So went a passage. Slowly, she sang: 
"Thou art my heart's desire; 
With thee I long to be; 
Each moment pass'd without thee 
Seems an eternity." 
With inspiring strength, she ended: 
"O strange, sweet passion! 
Love's burning fire! 
How I long to be with thee; 
"Thou art my heart's desire!" 

I considered him the person to whom she v/as singing — mur- 
muring her love, moaning the loss. "How I long to be with you." 
I was sent to shuddering with the terror of it. 

His face had been almost inscrutable as he listened to the song. 
Betraying no emotion, he asked, at its close: 
"I say; what's that?" 
I was amazed. 
"Don't you recognize it?" 

"No," he replied; "sounds a little familiar, though. Maybe I've 
heard it somewhere. I've been with so many musical freaks and 
heard so much of this classical stuff, I don't know what I've heard 
and what I haven't. But if you're going to put on anything else, 
cut out this high-brow stuff and put on something lively. Play 
'It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary'." 

A Good Man. 

HE was a good man — everybody said so. Mr. Wetherby did 
not hesitate to give a million to the society for the prevea- 
tion of cruelty to beetles. He built a hospital for the care 
of nanny goats. When he heard how the poor wretches in the Fiji 
Islands must exist without an understanding of the beauties of 
art, he wept. 

He sympathized with the benighted Eskimos who must endure 
life without the ennobling influences of classical music, so he ap- 
propriated enough to send a symphony orchestra to the unfortunates. 

The news that farmers crowd too many chickens into their 
coops, shocked him to the depths, so that he immediately organized a 
society for the limitation of the number of hens to each crate. 

He was a good man and everybody respected him. 

When he learned that his workingmen had gone on strike for 
a 50-cent increase in pay, he flew into a rage, called them unap- 
preciative whelps, threatened to starve them into submission and or- 
dered the Governor to call out the militia. 

After the strike was crushed and the men returned to their dollar- 
and-a-half-a-day jobs, he resumed his efforts to make happy the 
doomed chickens, the suffering beetles, the ailing nanny goats and the 
musicless Eskimos. 



The Color of Life 61 



The Prospector of Harlera 

ttyT'S a disgrace, judge; I tell you it's a shame to take up my 
I time like this when — " 

"Silence!" the judge commanded; "what is the defendant 
charged with?" 

The clerk replied quickly that complaint had been made by 
Mrs. Kennedy against her husband, Thomas. 

"It's an outrage to waste good time like this," Thomas Kennedy 
moaned. "I'm an old man — sixty-eight years old — and when I make 
my first strike I get my time wasted like this — " He jerked his 
beard in a nervous manner. 

With his eyes on the clock, Kennedy muttered: "It costs me 
twenty dollars an hour to be here — it's a shame." 

"What's the matter with your husband?" the judge asked Mrs. 
Kennedy, a tidy, gray-haired woman dressed in black. 

"He's a fine husband — usually. He had a job as night watchman 
until we moved into our house on east 115th street. Then he quit his 
job about a month ago and started digging a hole in the yard. 
He's been digging there ever since." 

"Is that right?" the judge inquired. 

"Yes, judge, there's gold in that claim, I tell you. It'll pay 
twenty dollars to the ton, which is more than ever I was able to 
get up north." 

"Gold in your back yard? In New York? You must be suf- 
fering from the heat." 

"No, judge," Kennedy persisted. "I know, judge, so help me, 
I know." 

"You're a foolish man — " 

"Ding it all, I know. When people rushed to the frozen north, 
they found me up there, for I was ahead of them all. I've spent 
twenty years of my life above 53 north latitude; and many a 
time I've camped at 60. I've starved my way up the ice-covered 
Yukon; I've hunted bear along the shores of the Mackenzie. Yes, 
judge, I went up so far that when I spit I'd spit ice; yes, sir, ice, 
sir, chunks of it." 

Kennedy became excited. His voice rose to a high falsetto as 
he exclaimed: 

"Yes, sir, judge; I've hunted for the yellow muck — I've sweated 
my v/ay into mountain sides and burrowed my shaft in the thawing 
ground. I know — I ain't lived sixty-eight years for nothing. I 
say there's gold in that there back yard — and it'll pay twenty dol- 
lars to the ton or I'll eat the dirt for breakfast. I say there's 
gold—" 

The judge tapped his forehead with a long, lean finger, bent 
forward and whispered: 

"He's a nut!" 

In the observation ward, Kennedy persists that there is a great 
conspiracy to jump his claim. 

"I discovered that gold," he says again and again. 

"I found it and by rights it belongs to me. It'll pay twenty 
to the ton or I'll eat the dirt for breakfast! Won't you let me get 
back to my claim before it's jumped? Won't you?" 



62 T he C olor of Lif e 



The Stranger. 

"W/"/"-^ — ^^® -^^^^ °^ "^ ™^ ^^^^ smoking compartment — had just 
^^U left Niagara and crossed over to the Canadian side, where 
^^ we trusted the Grand Trunk Railroad to carry us to Chi- 
cago. No sooner had we rolled over the Suspension Bridge than every- 
thing began to bristle bayonets. A soldier at each turn it seemed. 
We were in a war country. 

Immediately I looked at my three neighbors to see if there were 
any "enemies" present — not mine, but Canada's. I merely know 
people I like and people who do things I don't like. 

But to the three men. At my right, a Hungarian. Directly 
opposite me, a Canadian. To his left, a Russian. All of them 
looked as though they had been sleeping in their clothes. Also, they 
didn't appear to be any too clean. 

Now, I don't care where a man stands on such unimportant trifles 
as the latest Lansing note to Von Jagow, or where he stands on the 
insignificant question of indemnity to Belgium; but when he yanks 
out a huge bologna, as did that Russian, and proceeds to whittle 
it in my presence, he gets down to the great fundamental evils of 
society, down to the overwhelming tremendialities (something tells 
me I am coining a word). 

I felt uncomfortable. I had heard of bologna hanging from the 
hooks in butcher's windows, but I did not think human beings whit- 
tled a chunk of it much as Whittling Whilliam whittles a stick. That 
Russian did a shocking thing. Seeming to take a liking to me, he 
reached over and offered me that bewhittled bologna and that greasy 
knife. 

"You want eat?" he asked somewhat huskily. 

"Oh — no, no, no!" I answered quickly, wondering when the negro 
would announce breakfast in the diner. 

"You want eat?" he asked the Canadian, a farmer of about 65. 

"Don't mind if I do take a chunk," he answered. 

For half a minute he v/hittled. I was amazed. Here were 
strangers sharing the same horrible bologna. I shuddered. 

"You want eat?" he asked the Hungarian, who accepted without 
a moment's hesitation. 

Here were three men — a Russian, a Hungarian and a Canadian 
— fraternizing over a piece of bologna. And I, the fourth, a neutral, 
if you please — a stranger, an outcast. 

My Hungarian neighbor reached into his overcoat pocket and 
produced what surely was a quart bottle of whiskey. He uncorked 
it and placed it to lips that were still greasy from contact with 
bologna. He drank — deeply, thoroughly, conclusively, superlatively. 
Surely at least a half pint gurgled its way beyond his Adam's apple, 
which bobbed in a ridiculous manner. I caught my breath. Wiping 
the wet neck of the bottle v/ith a dirty palm, that Hungarian offered 
me a drink. 

"You want drink?" he asked. 

"Oh — no, no, no!" I answered, embarrassed. 

He offered it to the Russian, who accepted with alacrity. The 
Canadian also consumed about a half pint. 

"Ah!" they chorused, ecstatically. 

Oh!" I moaned, inwardly. 

The Canadian reached into his right coat pocket and brought 



The Color of Lif e 63 



forth the largest piece of chewing tobacco I ever saw in my life. 
That Canadian's tobacco was about a foot long and four inches wide. 
It was a most convincing object. He stuck one end in his mouth, 
and pulled, tearing off enough to fill it to the extent that breathing, 
for a while, became difficult. Then, with a flourish, he swung that 
black stick of tobacco tov/ard me. 

"Have a chew?" he inquired. 

I saw the saliva on the end of the stick — and shuddered. 

"Oh — no, no, no!" I gasped. 

The Hungarian accepted. So did the Russian. Soon they were 
aiming bombs of expectorant, highly charged with nicotine, at a 
cuspidor near my feet. I feared they might strike my shoes, freshly 
shined by the Pullman porter. 

The Hungarian, the Russian and the Canadian now were tha 
best of friends. A chunk of bologna, a swig of whiskey and a chew 
of tobacco — that was all, and they were comrades. I glanced out 
of the window as we raced through Hamilton, and saw a regiment 
of soldiers marching to their drill grounds. But my neighbors 
noticed them not. 

There was something that bound them together — a chunk of 
bologna. What cared that Canadian that my neighbor was a Teuton? 
Had he not supplied the flask? And what cared the Hungarian that 
the Russian was of that hated Slav country? Had he not supplied 
bologna? I was the only stranger. I — a neutral — who had refused 
the drink, the chew, and the bite. They looked on me v^dth suspicion. 

"Breakfast served in the rear car!" yelled the white- jacketed 
negro. I got up hurriedly and left. I was ashamed to admit that I 
had nothing that could bring me into that smoking compartment 
comradeship. 



A Matter of Taste. 

4 t T T OW are you getting along?" Judge Wiffen Poof asked Mrs. 
j~l Lizzie Mews, v>?hose husband had been placed on probation 
for abandonment. 

"Oh, all right, judge. I'm satisfied with him — " 

"Does he beat you?" 

"Oh, sure; but not so often." 

"Does he swear?" 

"Oh, certainly; he couldn't live without swearing — " 

"Does he still break the dishes?" 

"Only two or three times a week." 

"Does he give you any money?" 

"Sure — sometimes." 

"Does he get drunk?" 

"Well, yes ; he's got to get drunk once in a while — I don't mind — " 

"You're satisfied?" 

"Sure — he's an angel to what he used to be. He'd even hock 
my weddin' ring to get drunk; but now, outside of a little trouble 
once in a while, he's a fine husband." 

"Well," said Judge Wiffen Poof, "considering he's such a good 
husband I'll dismiss the case." 

"I hope he'll keep good," Mrs. Mews murmured as she walked 
from the courtroom. 



64 The Color of Life 



The Heart Expert 

THE novel interested Bartlett. Though only an amateurish effu- 
sion, it held his attention. After throwing the manuscript aside, 
Bartlett became engrossed in thought. "H-m, pretty good," 
said he, half aloud. "There's hope for that kid. He'll make his 
mark; but yet, there's one great fault with him — his heart is whole. 
It needs a little anguish; it needs a little suffering and, by Jove, 
the best thing in the world for him would be a heartless woman to 
wring some sobs out of him. That's it, a fractured heart would 
give him a different outlook on life — in other words, it would make a 
man of him." 

With these thoughts in mind, Bartlett slipped into his overcoat, 
lit a cigar and stepped out for a walk. "How can that boy's heart 
be broken?" Bartlett asked himself. 

He continued his reflections until he recalled a woman whom he 
felt certain could do the work to perfection. She would doubtless 
lend herself to the task — provided, of course, there be someone's 
leg to pull. 

"Yes, Ethel's the girl to break his heart," Bartlett concluded. 
"She'll let him make love to her — she'll be his first woman — she'll 
play with him awhile, tire of him and then cast him aside — and 
there you are. Oh, that's just what he needs! I'll go up to see 
her about it." 

A few days later the young novelist dropped into Bartlett's 
apartments to affect a small loan — "only a five spot until Saturday, 
old man." 

"Jean, I want to congratulate you," said Bartlett, letting him 
have the money. "Your novel reads well and I hope you'll land it 
somewhere." 

The lad smiled in a disinterested manner, lit a cigarette and 
seated himself in a comfortable rocker. 

"What do you say to coming up with me to visit a young lady 
friend of mine? You'll like her company very much — she'll interest 
you, even though rather sporty, but then, you can just go for local 
color — you might use her in a novel some day, eh?" said Bartlett. 

"Is she interesting?" 

Bartlett nodded. 

"Very well, I am willing to go." 

^ ^^ ^ 

AS SOON AS JEAN set eyes on Ethel he was charmed — cap- 
tured by her seductive eyes, vivacious nature, musical voice and 
happy laugh. Of course, he was not very anxious to admit it. How- 
ever, the truth was evident. Bartlett was immensely pleased. And 
. before leaving Jean alone in the company of Ethel, Bartlett slipped 
a few bills into his protege's pocket, to be used as circumstances 
might require. 

And then, Bartlett departed, feeling that he had done a good 
day's work in the cause of Art. 

"Ah! My Jean! Now will you learn what life really means! 
And then you'll write such stuff as will make Shakespeare turn in 
his grave." 

A great fear entered Bartlett's heart. "Suppose he takes her 
deception to heart and commits suicide. . . . What about that? 
Or, he might die of his broken heart! Good heavens! I don't 
want his blood on my head!" Bartlett argued. 

"Oh, well," said he later. "I'll vv'ait and see how things turn 
out." 



The Color of Life 65 



A MONTH SLIPPED BY. During that time Bartlett often 
wondered how things went with Jean. He had heard many vague 
rumors, but nothing definite. 

One day he dropped into a department store, stopped at a. 
■neck-tie counter — and almost dropped dead. 

Behind the counter stood Jean. 

"What in the name of Caesar's ghost are you doing here?" ex- 
claimed Bartlett in astonishment. 

"Oh, I'm employed here." 

"Employed here?" 

"Sure thing." 

"Since when?" 

"Last week," replied Jean. "And my wife's over in the millinery 
department — " 

"Wife! Who?" 

"Why, Ethel—" 

"And what about your novels?" 

"Oh, shucks! Say, these ties are all wool and o-nly thirty cents. 
Shall I wrap one up?" 

A Bit of Conversation. 

44 •-> EE, yuh didn't do that, didge?" 
I Tf "Whacher mean, didge?" 
^"^^ "Come away, now, don't be hard in the noodle." 

"Whacher mean, hard in the noodle? That's your soft place." 

"Aw, you're a bum chemist." 

"Whacher men, chemist?" 

"Yuh can't analyze me! Haw!" 

"A regular smart aleck." 

"It's as plain as A. B. C." 

"When you talk I'm D. E. F." 

"You're some come-on guy." 

"Talkin' like this to this baby is like throwin' away money — " 

"Whacher mean, throw away money — me?" 

"No, him — who d'ye think I wuz talkin' to? A nonexistant per- 
sonality — get that?" 

"I getcha, nonexistant personality; but whacher mean, throw 
away money — me do that — " 

"For throwin' all this smart gab around for us thicks to 
get gratis free of charge — " 

"Whacher mean, free of charge?" 

"These bright ideas is too good to chuck around loose. Why 
don't you buy yourself a little book for five sueys?" 

"Whacher mean, buy a book?" 

"So's you could write down all your smart aleck stuff." 

"Fan me, quick — " 

"An' then yuh could sell it in a book and make a piece of 
money." 

"I always was a wasteful guy — " 

"You'd be rich if you was onto yourself." 

"But say, Alvadora, kiddin' aside, what d'ye say to the movie?" 

"More extravagance! Awright." 



66 The Color of Life 



Sallie's Choice. 

THREE women — Probation Officer Mrs. Tompkins, Sallie Wil- 
liams better known as Kitty, and her mother, Mrs. Mary S. 
Williams, of Peekskill, N. Y., — were together in an effort to 
"fix things up." Mrs. Tompkins was the "fixer"; the other two 
needed the "fixing," especially Kitty. 

"It's too late, I tell you," Kitty exclaimed, again and again. "It 
won't work, I say." 

"Yes, it will," said Mrs, Tompkins, firmly. 

"I know it won't." Kitty seemed determined to have her way. 

"There," Mrs. Williams cried. "I offer to take her home again 
and she says no. Oh, God, who'd a-thought my Sallie would fall 
«o low." 

Mrs. Williams, a woman of fifty, burst into tears. 

"Now, mother, please don't cry — " 

"You don't love me or you wouldn't make me suffer like this — " 

"Yes, I do, mother. I'd do anything for you — ^but this can't 
be done — it's too late — " 

"It's never too late to mend," was Mrs. Tompkins' platitude. 
She looked at them as though she had given expression to a highly 
original thought. 

"Yes, it is," said Kitty; "some things get so broken you can't 
fix 'em — you have to throw 'em away. And I'm one of them. I 
can't be fixed." 

"Here you have a mother who is willing to take you home and 
give you a chance to start again." 

"I'll be miserable," Kitty said. A frown furrowed her painted 
face. 

"I know what'll happen," she added. "Everybody'll look at me as 
a leper. The neighbors will point to me as a bad example. I tell 
you I won't be able to stand it." 

"You will." 

"I won't. If she'd stay here I'd take care of her and give ker 
a place to stay in — " 

"How?" Mrs. Tompkins asked. 

"You know. Five years of my kind of life has made me diflfer- 
ent. I can't change now, especially by going to my home town. 
There's nothing for me there." 

"Very well," Mrs. Tompkins frowned, ready to play her trump 
card; "if your mind is made up you can have the six months the 
judge gave you. Go home or to the island." 

"How'll I live up at Peekskill?" 

"Work," 

"At what?'^ 

"I don't know. Wash clothes — anything — to make a living. Jail 
or home — which will you take?" 

Kitty decided to go to Peekskill. 

Ten minutes after they were gone, Kitty's mother rushed into 
Mrs. Tompkins' office. 

"We got to a corner," she panted, "when she grabbed me around 
the neck and kissed me. Then she ran off — " 

Mrs. Tompkins said, "D n it all!" — which was a rare thisg 

for Mrs. Tompkins to say. 



The C olor of Lif e 67 



The Proposal. 

tt-'CyTES," said he; "I would be the happiest man in the world 

I were you to consent to be my wife." 

-■- "You've told that to a hundred other women, haven't you?" 

She eyed him cynically. He hemmed and hawed. After a pain- 
ful pause, he said: 

"My dearest darling, you are the first woman I have ever 
loved." 

"And — and you are thirty-five years old?" 

"Past thirty-four, my dear, past thirty-four." 

"And you mean to say that I am the first woman — " 

"Absolutely," he answered, quickly. "I have never given a 
thought to the opposite sex until I met you last month." 

"And you have lived in Paris for seven years?" 

"No, my dear, six and a half years." 

"And you have trotted over this entire globe?" 

"All except Siberia." 

"And now, you propose to me and tell me that I am the first 
woman you have ever given a thought?" 

"I swear, my dear, you are the first, absolutely the first. 

"George, I am yours! I know you are lying, but I believe you 
anyway." 



Desire. 



44'c^T-7-HAT'S the first thing you'd do if you had a million dol- 
\l/ lars?" I asked this question of a group of regulars in 

^'^ the regiment of the ragged in the Bowery Hotel. 

"The first thing I'd do," said Frank Chase, who hopes to get a 
job laying bricks in spite of his fifty years, "would be— what'd you 
say? A million dollars?" 

He paused. Gray-haired, wrinkled Chase wanted to do himself 
full justice, it was obvious. 

"The first thing I'd do would be to get me a better room with 
nobody in it but me." 

Warren, who has muscular rheumatism, chirped m with: 

"If I had a clean million I'd see to it right away that I had hot 
water in my room in the winter time." 

"What would you do after you got your hot water? 

"I'd take a bath whenever I needed it; that's me." 

"I'd eat every day just like as if it was Christmas, O Hara, the 
emaciated, enthused. 

Baldheaded, asthmatic "Shorty" cackled: , ,„ 

"When I was a kid I always did like to hear jigs played. 

I concluded that that must have been at least forty-five years ago, 

"And," "Shorty" continued, "if I was to get a clean million right 
now I'd first of all buy me a fiddle and take lessons on jigs. 

"Nix on that, 'Shorty'," Bill Pool, the ex-gambler, exclaimed; 
"before you begin squandering that million you'd have to pay me that 

dime you owe me — " _ ., ., , j -^ a. » 

"Sure I would. I'd pay it now — if it had it to spare— 
"You've had it about three months. I could use that dime right 



now. 



68 The Color of Life 



"Skinny" Tom, the umbrella mender, said: 

"I ain't seen my old woman for nine years." He seemed to 
be gazing beyond us. "If I had that million, I'd hunt her up and 
give her a present — " 

"What would you give her?" I inquired. 

He answered quickly, as though his mind were made up for 
a long time: 

"A pair of shiny dancin' slippers." 

"Aw, he's gettin' mushy," "Shorty" blurted; "he gets that way 
oncet in a while." 

"Say!" "Shorty" glared at me. "What'd you do if you got a 
million dollars right now?" 

"I'd buy you a fiddle, 'Shorty'; I'd get a pair of dancing slip- 
pers for 'Skinny'; and I'd pay Mr. Pool the ten cents you owe him; 
then I'd get Chase a better room, and a bath with hot water for sick 
Warren." 

"And how about me?" O'Hara inquired. 

"I wouldn't forget you, old man; I'd fix it so's you could eat 
every day just like Christmas." 

"Gee, but you're a liberal guy!" said O'Hara. 



W^ormwood. 



SOME forty miles from Odessa was a village that harbored a 
hundred peasants. Nathan was one of them. He was a young 
tailor; strong, and even handsome. I said he was handsome. 
By that I don't mean he had drooping eyelashes, or bow-shaped lips, 
or hazel-brown eyes. No; I mean he was handsome in his magni- 
ficient strength and manfulness. For Nathan was a picture of 
health. 

Now, Nathan loved a girl. And the girl loved Nathan. They 
were soon to be married. This made Nathan happy. Radiant So- 
phia also was happy. The parents of Nathan and Sophia were 
simply delighted. It was a good match, all said in their wise Jewish 
cocksuredness. 

But Nathan one day got it into his head that there shouldn't 
be a marriage ceremony before he became possessed of a lot of 
money. So he decided to go to America 

Sophia cried. Her parents agreed with Nathan. A young man 
who looks ahead like Nathan isn't to be met every day. Nathan 
was right, said Sophia's father. Any young man not afraid of 
work can make a fortune in America — all he's got to do is work. 
Sophia was only seventeen, so why not wait a few years? 

^ ^ '^ 

THE SUDDEN CHANGE bewildered Nathan. Yesterdaj^ it 
was the crude, open life of the Russian village; now it was teeming, 
sweltering, nervous New York. The crawl of peasantry gave way 
to the crush of modern civilization. 

Nathan placed himself in the hands of the Hebrew Aid Society. 
Its secretary soon got him a job in an eastside sweatshop. And 
then commenced the terrific grind. He worked and worked. There 
seemed no limit to his capabilities. He seemed made of iron. 

For weeks and weeks his whole being was caged in the cell of 
toil in a heart-breaking shop and sleep in a disease-laden tenement 
hovel. 



The Color of Life 69 



But Nathan never complained. He was dreaming — dreaming 
of Sophia, of sweet, beautiful Sophia. He saved, and saved, and 
saved. The dollars gathered slowly, but surely. 

It was a life of work — of endless, monotonous labor. 

Nathan saw nothing. He cared to see nothing. He had what he 
wanted — work. He was saving what he needed for Sophia — money. 
What more could a man ask for? 

I said Nathan was made of iron. Well, iron corrodes. Yes, 
even iron rusts and decays. Nathan corroded. Nathan wasted 
away before his dreary task. Nathan became consumptive. 

Gradually Nathan withered under the load. His eyes became 
bleared, his breathing labored, his back bent, his muscles dried up 
and his face became set, furrowed and pale. What a change! A 
year before Nathan had been a giant, now he was wan, forlorn and 
diseased. The iron in him had rusted. 

Nathan continued v/orking, unaware of the havoc both shop 
and crowded tenement had played. He did not notice his health 
gradually slip away. Nor did he realize the Nathan of old was no 
more. He worked, and worked. He saved, and saved. For Sophia 
was waiting — sweet, good Sophia. It was all for Sophia. 

The months passed slowly. Each morning it was a little more 
diffiicult to get out of bed. Each day it was harder to continue the 
trying strain. Each night he was weaker and more wretched. 

And that cough was bothering him. At first he was quite sure 
it would leave in a few days. But it didn't go. It got worse. He 
tried to accustom himself to it. For a while Nathan succeeded. Now, 
he could withstand it no longer. 

The man at the next machine one morning took it upon himself 
to give Nathan some advice. Nathan concluded it would do no 
harm to follow it, so he went to see a doctor. 

The doctor was quick and abrupt. There was nothing else 
for Nathan to do. He simply would have to leave New York, the 
doctor told him. Three months more of the shop and tenement, 
and Nathan would die. That's what the doctor told him. 

^ <j» ^ 

SOME WEEKS LATER a shadow of a man limped into a 
Russian villiage some forty miles from Odessa. He half staggered 
his way up the road to the hut of Sophia. 

It was noon and the sun poured its heat with bright radiance 
on the early autumn fields. The harvest season was on and the 
workers labored with song and jest, gathering nature's gift. 

Nathan felt strange. The sympathetic looks of those he met on 
the roadway embarrassed him. 

Sophia was returning from the field. He saw her coming down 
the road, heard her shrill laughter, and trembled from head to 
foot. A cold sweat came upon him. 

She was passing him by! His Sophia! The girl for whom 
he had saved more than a thousand dollars! Sophia! 

"Friend," he stammered, "do you know Nathan?" 

"Nathan?" she repeated, quickly; "My Nathan? Oh, he is 
gone — to America." 

And in her girlish innocence, she added: 

"My Nathan is coming back to marry me. Oh, he is beautiful, 
my Nathan. Do you know him?" 

Nathan did not answer. 

"Everybody loves my Nathan. I am dying to hear from him, for 
he hasn't written a letter for almost a month. Have you heard from 
him?" 

Nathan shook his head. 



70 The Color of Life 



"No? Oh, I just can't wait any longer for my Nathan. I must 
see my handsome Nathan!" she exclaimed, hurrying away. 

Nathan glared after her for a moment, and sighed. Suddenly 
he commenced coughing again. It was a painful cough and tore 
him with pain. 

"She doesn't know me," he moaned; "she doesn't know me." 

Nathan felt weak and about to fall. For a few minutes he 
siat on a rock gazing after Sophia. Then he slowly rose to his feet 
and walked away from the village. 

Mike Mulcachy Was Drunk Again. 

THIS is a psychological story. It is a tale of the subconscious 
mind. It is a story that should have been written by Hugo 
Munsterberg, William James, Gustave Le Bon or Henri Berg- 
son. But the task falls on my puny shoulders. Please don't get 
frightened — the fog will lift shortly. 

First of all, let's get the concrete facts. After that is straight- 
ened out there will be time enough for psychology, and the like. 
The hero of this tale has the most poetic and expressive name that 
ever issued from the lips of man. His name is Mike Mulcachy. 

Mulcachy is exactly 64 years old. I hate to confess it, but he 
is commonly called an old soak, a frowsy bum, a charter member in 
the down-and-out fraternity. There's only one thing in this world 
that Mike Mulcachy fervently prays for — and that's for enough 
liquid to enable him to blossom into alcoholic amiability. 

The third of the Richards promised his kingdom for a horse. 
Mike Mulcachy would gladly pawn his shoes for a drink. When 
he was arrested last night, Mike was in his usual condition — drunk. 
He was haled into police court, charged with being a common drunk- 
ard. So much for the "concrete facts." Now comes the psychology. 

When his name was called, Mulcachy walked forward with feet 
that were somewhat wobbly. He was coming for a bit of formality 
that he had gone through hundreds of times in the past forty years. 
It had become a habit, second nature. He could easily go through 
all the proceedings with his eyes shut. As he stepped to Judge 
Wiffen Poof's bench, Mulcachy let his subconscious mind get the 
better of him. By that I mean Mulcachy said something that went 
like the following: 

"Ah, good morning', Mike Mulcachy. And how are yeh this 
mornin', Mulcachy? Oh, I'm all right, thank yeh. And so, you're 
back again? Ain't you ashamed of yourself, yeh old bum? Eh? 
Ah, indeed I am, sir. Ashamed I am, sir. An' I'll never touch an- 
other drop, sir. You're lyin', Mulcachy; yeh know yer lyin'. Well 
sir, yeroner, I guess yer right — I guess booze is me second nature. 
There's no hope for yer reform, Mulcachy. Right ye be, yeroner, 
right ye be. Me an' Demon Rum is twins. Shame on ye, Mike 
Mulcachy, soak that ye are. Shamed am I of meself, yeroner. An' 
ninety days ye deserve, Mucachy — ninety days ye git, Mulcachy. 
Right ye are, yeroner; ninety days I ought to be gettin' — " 

Judge Wiffen Poof, at this point, interjected with: 

"You've given yourself justice, Mulcachy, though I only intended 
giving you thirty days. But I think you weren't unnecessarily harsh, 
so take your ninety days!" 



The Color of Life 71 



The Worn-out Rug. 

How swiftly glide our flying years! 
Alas! nor piety, nor tears 

Can stop the fleeting day; 
Deep furrowed wrinkles, posting age, 
And death's unconquerable rage, 

Are strangers to delay. 

— Horace. 

MRS. EVANS, married but a few months, was in need of a 
rug. After entering a carpet store, she was approached by 
a young clerk who made a pleasant impression on her. His 
was a fine face — bright, cheerful, youthful. 

"What sparkling eyes!" Mrs. Evans exclaimed, inwardly. 

"And how beautifully he smiles!" she added, casting an admiring 
glance toward his pearly teeth. 

"I wish to purchase a rug," she told the young man. 

He showed her a number of multi-colored rugs. For the 
moment she seemed more interested in this blond youth than in 
the wares he displayed. 

"And here," smiled the youth ; "this is a rug that came yesterday. 
It came by itself — a new design — beautiful, isn't it? — it's the only 
one we have — " 

"The only one?" 

"Yes. It came by itself — like many of us — we come into the 
world alone, and stay here alone — and die alone," the youth philos- 
ophized. 

Mrs. Evans laughed; youthful pessimism usually amuses. 

"You're not afraid you may go through life alone, are you?" 
she asked, gazing into his wonderful brown eyes. 

"Life to me is a game of solitaire," said the young man, blandly. 
"It's just a game of solitaire." 

She smiled. Paying for the rug, she went home. 
♦ ^ ^ 

MRS EVANS GAVE considerable thought to the handsome 
youth and his laughable pessimism. She knew there was little like- 
lihood of so striking a young person being ignored by the all-seeing, 
arrow-shooting imp; this red-cheeked youth surely would be cap- 
tured. 

"Life is a game of solitaire — for some," she murmured, "but 
not for you, Mr. Handsome." 

After a time, his face disappeared into the wilderness of forget- 

fulness. 

■^ -^ -^ 

YEARS FLEW BY — many, many years — "Time rolls his cease- 
less course," leaving a wrinkle to mark each year. And when the 
years numbered twenty-five, she was a woman on the distressing 
side of fifty. ^ ^ , 

Mrs. Evans walked into a carpet store to buy a rug to replace 
the one that had been an eye-sore for a long time. She was m 
the same store she had visited soon after her marriage. 

A pale, emaciated man, neatly, but somberly dressed, approached 
her. He didn't make a pleasant impression. His was a wan face — 
drawn, "dry and hard. 

"What an unhappy-looking man!" she thought. 

He exhibited his stock. 

Spreading a rug on the floor, he said, in a wheezmg tone : 



72 The Color of Life 



"This is a fine one that came this morning. It came by itself — 
it's the only one we've got — " 

Mrs. Evans' memory worked rapidly. Something was breaking 
the bonds of forgetfulness. There was something familiar about 
that remark. 

"Is it?" she asked, peering into the man's eyes and noticing they 
were brown. 

"Indeed," he said, "it came just like many of us; we come into 
the world alone and stay here alone — and then, we die alone — ^that's 
life, ma'dam; a game of solitaire." 

It was all clear now; her memory placed him — he was that 
handsome youth who had sold her a rug years and years ago, and 
who, after a quarter of a century, was selling her another. 

She shook her head slowly. 

"Yes," she said; "it is — the same game played with the same deck 
of cards." 

And They Were On Their Way. 

Now, Samson, he was a mighty strong man, 

A mighty strong ma-n was he; 
But he lost his hair and he lost his eyes 

And also his liber-tee! 
For a woman, she can do more with a man 

Than a king and his whole arm-ee! 

— By Some Poet. 

AND now, darling of my heart," said Albert Pick to his in- 
tended, "I'm ready to trot to the minister with you to get 
married." 

"Oh, love of my soul," little Kitty gurgled in reply, "let's go 
right now." 

Albert Pick leaned over and planted the inevitable on Kitty's 
rosy lips. He sighed. So did she. "Ah," he said slowly, "I am 
the happiest man in the whole world." 

"Me, too, snootledums," Kitty exclaimed, rapturously. "I feel 
happy as a back alley cat." 

"I love you like the whisperings of a rose," came from the 
lovesick puppy. 

"Oh," she giggled, "you make love just like a Laura Jean Lib- 
erty." 

And then, realizing that time was flying, Albert Pick said: 

"Come, my honey bunch, let's go over by the preacher and get 
married. After we get that out of the way we'll have plenty of 
time for foolishness." 

So, arm in arm, they sallied forth. As they passed Heinrich 
Schultz' saloon, Albert Pick sighed: 

"How nice it would be before we got married to have one tiny, 
nice glass of beer — " 

"And a cheese sandwich," added Kitty, enthusiastically. 

"Ah, my dream, cheese sandwiches with some glasses of beer 
before we get married we will have now." 

And beer plus cheese they had. 

"M-m-m-m — " came from Kitty. 

"A-a-a-a-h!" was the sound that filtered through the foam on 
Albert Pick's glass of beer. 



The Color of Life 73 



"Being as it is that we is getting married today, honey, it wouldn't 
hurt us a whole lot to have another glass of beer — " 

"And," Kitty added, quickly; "another cheese sandwich." 

"All right, leave it to me to be a sport on my marriage day," 
Albert Pick boasted, whistling for the smelly waiter. 

And then, after they had each consumed six sandwiches and an 
equal number of beers, Albert Pick philosophized thusly: 

"Marriage ain't got nothin' on beer." 

"Well," Kitty ventured ; "there ain't no reason why both shouldn't 
go together. Just because we is goin' to get married ain't no reasan 
for kiboshing the beer." 

Albert Pick answered this argument by ordering a seventh 
beer. 

"When beer comes in by the stomach love flies out by the win- 
dow," Albert drawled, sipping the bitter liquid. 

» Kitty was getting suspicious. She drew herself up, arched her 
eyebrows and demanded: "Say, you, what're you tryin' to slip over 
around here? Ain't yuh goin' by the preacher?" 

Albert Pick answered this question by ordering an eighth glass. 
And then, the trouble commenced. Kitty showed that she was made 
of strenuous stuff. She rolled him over the floor*. She rocked his 
spinal column loose. She upper-cutted, side- cutted, under-cutted and 
over-cutted him. For the moment, she was a formidable white hope. 
And she didn't stop until an officer of the law appeared on the scene 
and dragged them away. When brought before Judge Wiffen Poof, 
Albert pleaded: 

"Let us go this time, judge. We admit we had a little too 
much, but we was on our way to get married and that's why we 
done it." 

Kitty, like a wise little woman, kept her mouth shut. She let 
Albert do the talking when she realized that he didn't intend to 
call attention to the upper-cuts. 

"Show me your license," commanded his honor. Judge Wiffen 
Poof. 

"Here it is," came from Albert. There was no question that 
the license was of the realm. 

"If you'll let me marry both of you right here in court, I'll 
discharge you," the judge offered. 

"I'm willin'," Kitty interjected. 

"So'm I," came from Albert, who was still nursing a swollen 
eye. They were married and lived happily — at least three days. 

The Sociological Grafter. 

TARRYTOWN-ON-THE-HUDSON!" shouted the conductor, as 
the Albany local came to a halt. A score or more of men and 
women alighted. Most of them immediately entered automo- 
biles that were to take them to their estates on the hills of 
Pocantico near by. One man who leisurely strolled out of the sta- 
tion attracted extraordinary attention from those around him. 
Indeed, it is not to be wondered that they all eyed him from the 
crown of his hat to the soles of his shoes. 

His hair was long, his hat was immense and his black beard was 
big enough for three. He wore a soft shirt, which was decorated 
with a huge, flowing red tie. 
He was a sight. 



74 The Color of Life 



The stranger continued walking as though he were unaware 
of the fact that he was the center of all eyes. 

Presently he approached an old Dutch inn. Over its door wai 
a gate on which was inscribed: 

"This gate hangs high and hinders none; 

Refresh and pay, then travel on." 

The inmates looked on him with awe, but as he offered to pay 
for a week's lodging in advance, they took him in. 

On the register he signed himself: 

"Yours for the Revolution, Eugene V. Marksi," 

The news spread like wildfire. 

"Did you hear about the Anarchist in town?" 

"Wonder what the rich ducks'll do up on the hills?" 

Boys followed Marks about the streets. He was pointed out 
by mothers as a person to beware of. Little girls ran and hid under 
the bed when they saw him coming. 

Marks endured all this notoriety with nonchalance. He was the 
least troubled person of all. 

Every move he made was common news. If he walked out into 
the country, that fact was whispered about. One morning he bathed 
his beans in catsup. That night the word went out that "the An- 
archist drinks blood instead of coffee." 

Two days after he arrived, Marks bought two acres of land 
situated on the side of one of Pocantico's many hills The land was 
not worth much, and the farmer who owned it gladly soM out for 
a thousand dollars. It was barren, rocky land and had never been 
cultivated. 

As soon as Marks became possessed of the title to the land, 
the explosion came. 

No, not a bomb explosion — much worse than that. 

The cause of the intense excitement that raged from one end 
of Tarrytown to the other was a circular that Marks had distributed. 
It read: 



LOVERS OF FREEDOM, HARK YE! 

Long enough have we endured the tyranny of the idle, 
parasitical, cruel, grasping, greedy capitalists! 

It is time to Revolt. 
Fifteen Anarchists, Free Lovers, Communists and 
Holy Jumpers have decided to found a colony of free 
citizens near this town. 

We need about fifty more. 
All who wish to join this colony should attend a meeting 
tomorrow night at the 

OLD TOWN HALL 

Come one, come all! 

Join us and be free men and women at last! 

Throw off the shackles of slavery ! 



The hall was jammed to the doors. 

Marks v/as the orator of the evening. What he said went some- 
thing like this: 

"Brothers of the Sword of Liberty! I am here to offer you a 
means to end your slavery. All you need do is to join our colony. 
There you will live as Nature intended. You will do as you please. 



The Color of Life 75 



You will wear what you please, and if you should desire to wear 
nothing at all you will be at liberty to do so. No one will have 
the authority to stop you. 

"There will be work for all and none will feel the pains of 
poverty. Next week my fifteen brothers and sisters will arrive by 
special train. Then we will start the colony. 

"I appeal to you! Join our colony of free men and women 
and you will forever end your misery." 

That same night the best citizens of the village held a secret 
conference that continued far into the morning. 

One excited bank president shouted: "Lynch them!" 

A cooler-headed stock broker replied: "Tut, tut! That won't 
do! They own the land. It's their property, and we can't molest 
them. The only thing we can do is this." 

All saw the logic of his remarks and voted unanimously to 
send a special committee to the colony promoter. 

"Wish to see me?" asked Eugene V., coolly. 

"Yes, sir," replied the spokesman for the citizen's committee 
of five. 

"What about?" 

"It's about your colony. We residents are opposed strenuously 
to the idea. Will you agree to sell us the land and leave town 
forever?" 

"Never!" shouted Marks. 

"Come, come. We'll pay you handsomely. How will five thous- 
and dollars go?" 

"Not enough." 

"Well, how much do you want?" 

"Ten thousand dollars or you get the colony next week." 

"Settled. Here's your money." 

"I am being unmercifully persecuted," declared Marks as he 
pocketed the money and signed the bill of sale. "Would you be- 
lieve me, this is the sixth town that has refused to allow us our 
liberties. Can you tell me when the .next train leaves for Newport?" 

Who Was He? 

TEN years! Clipped from his life by a judge who boasted of 
the protection he was affording society. Ten years! But, Joe 
Woods took his sentence stoically. 
"I'm willin' to take me medicine," the young offender muttered, 
as he was led to the "pen" by a bejowled deputy. "I ain't goin' to 
beef over it!" 

Joe was tall, erect and young to a fault. At one time, hopes 
and ambitions had nestled in his heart. But that sentence had 
finally ended it all. He was, in almost every sense of the word, dead. 
And he had died a quiet, undemonstrative death. There wasn't even 
a gasp. His dreams — like a wax candle — had melted away. The 
judge had given the word — and he went. Without protest, without 

question, without pleadings — he went. 

•^* ^ <jf 

IN THE COUNTY jail, Joe was told he would be taken to 
Waupun — the state penitentiary — on the following day. 

"We feed yuh good before takin' yuh," said the heavy jailor, 
thinking he was bestowing a great favor upon his prisoner. "Give 
3ruh all yuh want to eat." 

Joe smiled his thanks. His eyes seemed like burning coals. His 



76 The Color of Life 



fists were clenched. But, a second later, he became stolid-faced and 
firm. 

For an hour he paced the full length of his cell — slowly, heavily. 
He wanted to be hard, cold — and he appeared to be succeeding. 

"There's a woman to see yuh," said the jailor, slowly. "Says 
she's got to see yuh — " 

"A woman?" 

"Uh-huh." 

Joe thought quickly. Who could it be? In the whole city he 
knew but one — a courtesan whose friendship and admiration he 
had attracted. 

"What does she look like?" he inquired. 

"Kind of old and dressed in black," the jailor replied. "Says 
her name is Mrs. Brown from somewhere in the East. 

Joe started. 

"I — I — don't know a Mrs. Brown," he stammered; "tell 'er I 
don't want to see 'er." 

A few minutes later, the jailor returned. 

"She says as how she's got to talk to yuh," he announced. "She 
seen yer picture in the papers an' she's got a hunch yer her son — " 

"Can't be—" 

"But she won't go 'way. You'd better see 'er so's to satisfy 
the old woman." 

^Ji- 4» *■ 

THE CELL WAS dimly lighted. Joe's face became set and 
hard as he waited the woman's appearance. He intended to be blunt 
and harsh. 

The woman entered timorously. She peered about the cell, unable 
to discern its contents. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to 
the darkness. 

"You came to see me?" Joe almost blurted 
"Y-yes, yes. I— I—" 

"You'll have to speak up quick and tell me what you want." 

"I saw your picture and I thought you looked like my lost boy," 
the woman said. 

"Huh! That's a funny one! Your boy? I ain't had a mother 
for fifteen years — she's as dead as they ever was," came from Joe 
in his hardest tones. "You struck it wrong this time." 

"But — your picture looked like him — my Harry — " 

"Now see here, my name ain't Harry" — Joe's tone was final — 
"it's Joe — J-o-e — that's plain enough, ain't it?" he barked. 

"I — I wanted to see for myself. Won't you come to the light?" 

Joe knew it would be folly to refuse this woman's request. 

"There," he snapped; "take a good look." 

The woman stepped to his side and slowly scrutinized his coun- 
tenance. 

"I don't think you're my Harry," she said, after a half minute's 
examination; "but — " 

"But what?" Joe inquired brusquely. 

"You do look a little like him you got his eyes — but I'm 

sure you ain't him now that I've seen you close." 

"I told you that in the first place. It's a wonder you wouldn't 
believe me." 

"I'm sorry I troubled you." 

Joe said no more. The woman reluctantly withdrew. 

A few minutes later the jailor returned. 

"I got a good dinner for yuh, Joe. Come down." 

Joe was sprawled out on the cot. 

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" he exclaimed, "what in hell are yuh 
cryin' about?" 



The Color of Life 77 



Izzy's New Ice Box. 

a X IN'T it awful," said Mrs. Sarah Schlumberg to her hus- 
A\ band. She gave an egg a vicious jab, bringing its interior 
to view. As she sizzled that helpless child of the barnyard 
over the gas stove, she added: 

"It's awful, I say, the way it's hot and the ice melting all 
the time like it was in a stove." 

Her husband, Isadore, looked at the pan and nodded his head. 
He could see that ice (five cents' worth) dissolving in a heart- 
rending manner. 

"We got to have ice," Isadore declared, "or the milk and the 
butter and the meat would all get .no good." 

Sarah popped her opinion, saying: 

"If we got an ice box then we wouldn't have to bother with 
no ice no more." 

Isadore, who lives in Essex street, had heard that Americans 
use ice boxes and concluded it would be a splendid plan to get one. 

"Leave it to a Yankee thief to make a machine so ice is done 
away with," he commented. "I guess I'll find out how much one 
costs." 

He visited the store of Herman Roser, near Rutgers Square, 
and learned he could get an ice box for eight dollars. Isador* 
bought one. 

Yesterday Sarah put the butter, milk, meat, fish and other 
delicacies into the ice box, congratulating herself on her good for- 
tune in having an ice box, thus doing away with the necessity of 
paying good money to the ice man. 

But not many hours passed before she realized that all of th« 
good things to eat, Isadore's supper, in fact, had spoiled utterly. 
That ice box was as cool as the crater of an active volcano. 

She called her husband, adding: 

"Look! The ice box ain't no good at all. It don't keep nothin* 
at all cool like it ought to. That robber sold us a fake ice box." 

Isadore hurried to Herman Roser's store. Shaking a fist i« 
his face, Isadore shouted: 

"Thief! Why do you take my eight dollars and sell me aa 
ice box that won't keep nothing cold? Thief!" 

Roser was amazed. 

"That's as good an ice box as ever was sold," he said. "Mayb« 
you don't put enough ice in it." 

"Ice?" Isadore repeated. "Ice? What do I need to buy mor« 
ice when I pay eight dollars for an ice box?" 

Roser laughed uproariously. "Hold me or I die laughin'," he 
shouted. 

"This ain't funny. What do I want to buy an ice box for when 
I have to put ice in it. Instead of spending eight dollars I use 
the tinpan." 

"You got to have ice," Roser persisted. 

"Then I want my eight dollars back again," was Isadore's de- 
cision. 

Roser told him to hurry home like a good boy. Instead, he went 
to the police station where he made an effort to have Roser arrested 
for selling him an ice box that needed ice, but the. police said no 
warrant could be issued. Isadore says there is no justice in America. 



78 The Color of Life 



And He Loved a W^oman. 

"/ siiTn up half mankind, 
And add two-thirds of the remaining half. 
And find the total of their hopes and fears 
Dreams, empty dreams." 

— Cowper. 

I WALKED down Palm avenue, in the City of Eternal Summer, 
and, nearing the home of my friend, James Marion, I decided 
to visit the dear old soul. He was in the twilight of his life; 
on his road into evening; into night — and alas. Death. 

With age had come the candle that throws a faint glow over 
wisdom. His days and nights were spent in a calm perusal of books. 
And yet, I felt pity for my friend. His years, I muttered, were years 
of sighs, for he knew not the meaning of love. 

^ -^ ^ 

"A WONDERFUL day, isn't it?" he asked, dosing a book and 
placing it on a shelf. "Everything is so calm and quiet — silence 
is sweet to one who is growing old. Yet, I'm growing old — or rather," 
— and with Hugo in mind, he added, "I am ripening." 

"One should blossom first," I laughed. 

"I am blossoming and ripening at the same time," he answered. 

"You mean that you are in love?" 

He was standing at the window. I saw his face brighten. 

"Yes," he murmured, his eyes glued on someone in the street, 
"I have been in love for almost ten years," And, with a laugh, "see, 
there she is — isn't she beautiful? Ah, she is wonderful!" 

I hurried to his side. A woman, accompanied by a middle-aged 
man, walked by the house. In a minute the couple disappeared. She 
seemed to be a woman of forty; tall, slender, and sad-faced — ^hers 
was the beauty of character and the beauty of fading violets. 

"Isn't she wonderful?" he inquired, his countenance brightening 
with happiness. "With her, my life is blossoming; with my books, 
my life is ripening." 

"The man — who is he — " 

"Her husband," he answered indifferently. 

Who is he?" 

"I don't know." 

"Then, of course, you don't know who she is — " 

"I don't, to be sure." 

I threw up my hands and exclaimed: 

"Pardon me, dear fellow, pardon me ten thousand times over. 
When I entered this room a few minutes ago, I felt pity for you; 
I foolishly imagined there is no romance in your heart — pardon me, 
I beg you; I take it all back." 

"I suppose I am an old, old fool," he said slowly. A line from 
Shakespeare suggested itself, and he added: "How ill white hairs 
become a fool." 

"You are a poet," I enthused; "a poet." 

"For ten years I have known her — and loved from afar — " 

"A lofty, majestic love," I exclaimed. 

" I have worshiped her. . . Every afternoon, they pass this 
window — I am always here; I see her; I love her!" 

"Ten years—" 

"Yes, ten years — they have flown — love gives wings to time and 



The Color of Life 79 



hurries one into eternity. . . . She has never seen me — she never 
shall — I shall love her to the end — love pains, but its pains are as 
"wine." 

^ 4» 4^ 

A WEEK LATER I again visited my friend. This time, I found 
him worried. In fact, I must confess that it was the first time I 
had ever seen him lose his serenity. 

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed; "what has happened?" 

He bowed his head and stared at the floor. 

"I can't understand it at all," he replied, slowly; "something 
serious must have taken place — " 

"What? please be more specific — " 

"She, the woman I love, has not gone by this house for three 
days — something has happened, I am positive." 

"No, no; if it's only three days, there is nothing that need worry 
you — " 

"Nothing to worry me?" he inquired, sharply; "why, don't you 
realize that this is the first time she has failed me? Every after- 
noon, at precisely two o'clock, for ten years, she has appeared. Four 
days ago I saw her and she looked exceedingly pale; yes, yes, I 
fear something has occurred." 

"Do you know where she lives?" 

He shook his head. 

"You know her name?" 

"No." 

"Well, then, I don't know how I can aid you." 

He walked to the window and stared out. Suddenly, he started 
violently. 

"There!" he cried; "there is her husband!" 

I ran to his side. 

"And he is alone," I added. 

"Yes; see that forlorn look on his face; see how dejected h« 



I saw more — I saw a black band on his sleeve. 
"My God! she must be dead!" 
He gasped for breath. 

"Come; we will follow him." 

^ ^ ^ 

AN HOUR LATER we learned that the funeral would be held 
on the following morning. I helped him back to his home. 

As soon as we entered, he broke down and wept as though his 
heart were breaking. I could not bear to watch my friend in his over- 
whelming sorrow. I knew my presence could not benefit him, so I 
withdrew. 

Next morning, I called again. He was attired in a suit of black. 

"It's time to leave," he sighed; "the funeral takes place at 
ten." 

He joined the mourners. And when the grief -stricken formed in 
a line and slowly followed the hearse, he was in the rear, a part of 
the procession. 

When the service was over, he approached the man who had been 
her husband. Grasping his hand, my friend said: 

"I, a stranger, grieve with you; I, too, feel the pain tearing at 
your heart." 



80 The Color of Life 



As It Goes. 



AT nine o'clock the Judge called the case of the State vs. Mar- 
cellud Eldridge Harrison. As the defendant was charged 
with the theft of something over two million dollars, the judge 
was on his best behavior. 

"I am very sorry for you," said the judge, "the evidence shows 
you are guilty. I must sentence you to one year." 

Mr. Harrison's attorneys presented a handful of affidavits which 
showed that he was in delicate health an-d could not serve a sentence. 
It was shown that at an early age, Mr. Harrison had stubbed his toe 
and that some years later he had sprained his ankle while alighting 
from an automobile. 

"Oh, this changes matters. You are placed on probation," said 
the Judge. With a sigh, Mr. Harrison, walked from the court, en^ 
tered his machine and was whirled back to his bank. 

At ten o'clock, John Hunt was arraigned on the charge of larceny. 
He was a miserable sight — an evil-smelling wretch. 

"You are guilty, aren't you?" 

"I was starving." 

"That won't save you from punishment," announced the court. 

"But judge, I'm a sick man," said John Hunt. "I have Bright's 
disease, dyspepsia, appendicitis and rheumatism." 

"Six months," the judge bawled. 



A Sad Blow. 



AT the Bellevue Hospital the doctors venture the information 
that James Pitts — aged, puffing Pitts — will be able to leave in 
a few days. It was a bad shock, the doctors say. But the poor 
old fellow was his old self soon — which isn't saying much, th« 
doctors add. 

Pitts — poor, old Pitts — lies in his cot, gazing at the harsh, white 
ceiling; his eyes — deep in their sockets — stare in a stupid manner. 
He is trying to convince himself that what he thinks happened, 
really happened and that it is not the dull imaginings of a worn 
mind. It really happened — it did; and that's why he is in the 
hospital. It was an awful shock for this penniless, blear-eyed, emaci- 
ated unfortunate. 

Too old to obtain and hold a job — not a position, just a measly, 
little job — James Pitts has been living a hard existence — the kind 
that New York knows only too well. Sometimes he'd eat and some- 
times he wouldn't; or, rather, more often he didn't and sometimes 
he did. Again, he got his sleep without bothering about a bed, 
which is nothing to boast of. 

James Pitts, realizing he could do nothing at his trade of book- 
binding, decided to answer an advertisement which called for an 
experienced house-to-house solicitor. Pitts got the job, though he 
was certain he could do nothing worth while. 

It was his task to sell inartistic plush albums at six dollars each 

"I'm sure I can't do anything with these," he sighed, "but I've 
got to do something or starve, so I guess I'll have to try." 



The Color of Lif e 81 



It was at Third avenue and Tenth street, the other day, that 
ragged, hungry Pitts, a sample album under his arm, ambled forth 
in quest of the nimble dollar. 

For a half hour James Pitts, feeling exceedingly nervous, did 
nothing but approach doors, hesitate and turn away. Poor fellow! 
— he feared the wrath of the gentle ladies. "Hell hath no fury like 
a woman's scorn," some poet said. Pitts, realizing this, was afraid 
to risk a door ring. To be perfectly frank, Pitts had a yellow streak. 

This trembling wretch felt that he would be able to risk the 
fires of hell if he could only get a glass of something sold over a 
piece of expensive mahogany, but, alas, the little fellow didn't have 
the dime. 

Finally, moved by the spirit of adventure, Pitts corralled enough 
courage to ring a household arouser. It was a long brazen ring 
and it chilled old Pitts. He dreaded the reception in store for him. 
The door opened. Pitts realized he was paralyzed. He looked at 
the immense woman in front of him and trembled. 

"What 'do you want?" she demanded. 

Pitts raised his album. 

The woman's countenance brightened. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, ecstatically; "I was just getting ready 
to go uptown for albums. How lucky that you came right now! 
Do tell me how much they cost." 

Pitts gulped twice before answering. 

"Six dollars? Well, well, that's cheap! I want one for myself 
and one for the roomer upstairs. My brother gets married tomorrow, 
and I want one for a wedding present. And then, Anne's birthday 
comes next week, and I want to give her one. Then there's Aunt 
Lucy — she's to get one. Let's see. That makes $30. Have them 
here right away, will you? I must have them! ..." 

This was too much. Dazed, James Pitts fell in a heap. But, 
the doctors at Bellevue say he will be his old self in a few days. 

A Modest Beginning. 

r'Wf HE board of directors met in extraordinary session. They had 
I been called together hurriedly, because it had been discov- 
"*" e; ed that the accounts refused to balance. After a solemn 
investigation it was found that the office messenger, a lad of fif- 
teen, had embezzled the immensa sum of $2.75. 

"Well," said the chairman of the Standard Safety Pin Com- 
pany, "what shall we do?" 

"I favor calling the police at once," said the well-groomed, 
portly g3ntleman on the right, as he puffed at a 50-cent perfecto. 

"Yes, sir," agreed the chairman's son; "a few years in pris- 
on wiU do that little thief some good " 

"Com^, come, gentlemen," sai 1 a good natured director. "Let 
us not forget that we ourselves hzgan life like this young messen- 
ger Of course, now that we ha v^e succeeded, we are able to work 
on a larger scale, but we all had humble beginnings." 

Eventually the lad became chairman of that board. 



82 The Color of Life 



Walls. 



SAM was tired of it all. Shaking a dirty fist at Elmsville — sleepy, 
crawling village of Elmsville — he walked down the State road, 
headed for the big city — New York. No resident of Eimsville 
came to bid him farewell, not a soul to wish him luck — nobody seemed 
to care; and Sam wasn't sorry, for that matter. He was sick of 
Elmsville, tired of being looked upon as worse than the scum of the 
earth, less than a beast, less than the homeless dogs that roam the 
hot, dusty roads. 

He was a strong, powerful lad — turning twenty — with a lithe 
body, sharp, pleasing features, piercing black eyes and sunburned 
skin. A half mile from the village, Sam turned again, shook his 
fist and characterized Elmsville in a vigorous, adjectival streak that 
looked red. While his picturesque words could never grace the 
printed page, still the spirit in which they were uttered was certain 
to command respect. Calmly considering the provocation, it was 
extremely commendable that Sam, like the proverbial worm, had 
turned. When a worm turns, even the tyrant, whose foot caused 
the incipient rebellion, must admire its spirit, for after all, while 
it is true that nothing is uglier than a slave, it is also true that 
nothing is m.ore sublime than a fighting slave. Sam turned, like 
the worm, but Elmsville, whose foot had come down on his head, 
didn't seem to care whether he turned or squirmed or surrendered. 

A few days later, Sam was in the big city. The big city is both 
a mother and a step-mother; she takes the good and the bad to her 
breast; she asks no exasperating questions; she cares little about 
the things in which Elmsville is intensely interested. There is the 
big city's mother spirit. The big city's step-mother spirit doles out 
nothing to the millions she adopts; she never gives without a strug- 
gle; she is indifferent. It was the big city's indifference that de- 
lighted Sam. 

The big city can use the Samuels who flock to her breast; she 
nee'ds the Samuels who come to work; for the big city has sharp 
teeth and can chew nothing unless there be an ever plentiful supply 
of producing Samuels. So Sam got a job in a machine shop, where 
the foreman told him he would soon learn a good trade if he would 
be on the alert and be anxious to grasp the intricacies of operating 
a lathe and do the many things that machinists are expected to do. 

Now that he had a job, Sam was ready to use the few dollars 
he had brought with him. So he spent $2, giving the money to 
Mrs. McCarty, who conducts a rooming house on 10th street, just 
east of Third avenue. It was a big house — some thirty-odd rooms 
in it — and had been, in the days of long ago, the home of one of 
Gotham's upper middle class families. But neighborhoods, like poli- 
ticians, eventually lose their grip, and in this instance, the result was 
that hard pressed women like good hearted Mrs. McCarty used 
every possible square foot to room just such mortals as Sam. 

"Up on the top floor," Mrs. McCarty announced, "I've got a 
big room that's been cut in two, so's I can charge less rent. I 
used to get four dollars for it, but now that I've had it cut in two by 
a partition I'm only askin' for a couple of dollars for each." 

Sam looked on this as good news. Trudging his way up the flights, 
he paid no attention to the beddy odor of things. When he saw the 
room, small as it was, separated from its mate by a thin wall of 
pine boards, which was covered, for art's sake, with yellow-flowered 
wall paper, he felt as though he were the owner of a gorgeous palace. 



The Color of Life 83 



And, true to the big city's spirit, Mrs. McCarty wasn't inquisi- 
tive after Sam had paid his week's rent. She gave him a key, told 
him there'd be some towels for him in a few minutes, assured him 
he would find the bed comfortable and hurried down to answer the 
ring of the door bell. 

To Sam everything looked good — on the morrow he would go to 
work; he had a room that would belong to him for a week and at the 
end of which, as luck would have it, a pay envelope, however meager, 
would enable him to continue his possession of it. No wonder Sam 
was happy. He was away from Elmsville, and this in itself was good 
fortune. For a time he reviewed the course of his twenty years in 
Elmsville, and it was only because he was in the big city that he 
didn't shake his fist and repeat the vituperative words that had 
stormed their way from his lips a few days before. 

♦j> -iji- ^ 

THE TROUBLE, after all, was severely simple. Sam never had 
a father; that is to say, a legal father. Sam didn't even know his 
illegal father. As for his mother, she died soon after he was bom. 
No one in Elmsville would say anything good about her. She 
brought Sam into the world and then went out of the world. His 
mother dead, and his father unknown, Sam became the charge of 
Elmsville. So long as Sam was an infant, the people of Elmsville 
, cared for him, accepting the advice of a preacher who was not rigidly 
exact. 

The Higgins people took the infant for almost six months, and 
they were positive their reward would be concrete in the life to come. 
The Brundins fed and clothed the yelling mite for a little over three 
months. The Kelly family, the Carlsons, the Romwalls, the Goddards 
and the Fosters all took their turn — and, while they muttered curses 
on the young one's head, they did not fail to supply it with bottles 
of milk and slices of bread. 

After some years of this sort of charity, the villagers concluded 
that the boy was old enough to take care of himself, so he was told 
to make the most of Elmsville. They allowed him to sleep in the 
one-celled jail back of the one-roomed courthouse and headquarters 
for all things of a civic nature. As the cell was rarely occupied, 
Sam always had a place in which to sleep. Everybody agreed it 
was good enough for him, considering what he was. As for food, 
he always succeeded in obtaining enough. They might have had 
him sent to an institution, but Sam was so insignificant, so trival 
that no one seemed to care what happened to him. So, by common 
sufferance, Sam was permitted to continue his residence in Elmsville. 

The first thing he learned was a harsh-sounding word that con- 
veyed the information that he had been born improperly. It was 
an ugly word, and it was used by the men. The women, while above 
so crude and vicious a word, never hesitated to call him a "brat." 
How he got the name of Sam nobody knew. 

At first, Sam didn't know why everybody looked on him as some- 
thing strange, something beastly. When the older youngsters told 
the growing generation that "Sam hadn't never had no father," he 
couldn't quite appreciate the fearfulness of the crime he had .com- 
mitted. When he learned, at a later period, that men often go to 
war, Sam's imagination conjured a picture of a battle with a father in 
the front ranks. And, according to Sam's early explanation of the 
phenomenon, he didn't have a male parent because his father had been 
killed in a battle, but this was neither here nor there, as the all-know- 
ing natives of Elmsville were firmly convinced that Sam's father, 
whoever he may have been, was not the kind to waste his time at a 
battle, especially when there hadn't been a war. 



84 The Color of Life 



But, even though Sam had no father, it had to be granted that 
he was a fine specimen of boyhood. He had a beautiful body and a 
handsome countenance, which was more than many of the urchins 
who were taught to boast of a father could lay claim to. But a 
beautiful body, a quick mind and self-reliance are not enough to 
cover a sin committed by some one in the past. Sam was a — well, 
his mother had never married. 

Even though Sam was brother to the homeless mongrels, the 
rustics, out of the goodness of their hearts, were not beneath allow- 
ing him to help them when there was some plowing to be done, 
or some harvesting, or the like. Young as he was, Sam, full of 
fourteen years of life and energy, could do very useful work. 
That was the only thing Elmsville gave him — work. 

Almost every village has a Samuel — sometimes it isn't Samuel 
exactly. If not, then it may be Mary or Annie or the like, Four 
miles from Elmsville, in Preston, there was a Samuel of the other 
sex. She got the name of Mary somehow or other, Sam heard say. 

This girl, Samuel was informed, was like himself — she never had 
a father. To be sure, Sam was interested. He soon learned she 
was about his age, and that she was working in the hosiery mill that 
enabled Preston to boast of 4,000 inhabitants. She, like Sam was able 
to work — and that was the only thing that Preston v/as willing to give. 
She toiled at the loom and faced her lot. She was sensitive; she was 
accustomed to being called — what they usually called him. 

One day Sam decided to walk to Preston for no other purpose 
than to steal a glance at this person He wanted to see where she 
differed from the other girls, where the mark was that placed her 
in the pale of criminals. He waited at the mill gate, and before long 
he learned who this Mary really was. Sam looked at her and was 
glad to see that not only was she a human being but actually beau- 
tiful. Sixteen years old, she was a joy to the eye. 

For a full minute Sam stared at her. According to his values 
of beauty, she appeared to be the most striking girl in either Pres- 
ton or Elmsville — but that didn't lessen the crime; she didn't have 
a father, 

Sam, never having had an opportunity to associate with girls, was 
afraid of them. He would have loved to know this charming, quiet 
girl but he well knew that his tongue would freeze if he attempted 
to speak to her. 

"She's as good as any of them," Sam commented to himself as 
he followed her. Sam could not understand how a girl so beautiful, 
so sweet, could be bad. And, as for not having a father, Sam con- 
cluded that it was better not to have one than to be cursed with 
the kind most of the others have. 

He wanted to tell her how he hated them all for their blindness 
in having built a wall around this girl and labeled her so all might 
know. But Sam was afraid. He followed her for almost a 
mile and then returned, after she had entered a little house. 

When he returned to Elmsville, Sam was met by the head of the 
Higgins family. 

"Where've you been with me wantin' yuh to do what's got to 
be done, and offerin' ye money fur it, too — " And here Higgins made 
disparaging remarks about Sam's ancestry. "A lot of thanks we 
get for takin' ye like a strayed dog and feedin' yuh so's ye could 
make yer own livin' an' be decent. A lot of thanks we get." 

The boy had grown accustomed to receptions of this order. At 
times it made him boil to the point of wanting to fight; but when 



The Color of Lif e 85 



he looked at his torturers — big, brawny giants like Higgins — ^he 
could do nothing but restrain himself and save himself the ignominy 
of a beating. 

Promising to appear at the Higgins farm on the following morn- 
ing Sam seemed to satisfy Higgins, though he continued his volcanic 
profanity. 

Sam lay awake for many hours that night. Thoughts of Mary 
persisted in presenting themselves. And yet, he knew he would 
never dare to meet this girl. 

"She's like me," he muttered. "We'd be the laugh of everybody 
if they ever saw me talking with her. I'd make things worse'n they 
are now." 

Next morning he went to work for Higgins, though he felt a 
strong desire to return to Preston for another glimpse of the gin. 
.But on Sunday he didn't go fishing as was his habit. Instead, he 
walked to Preston, where he watched for the girl. Before long 
she came down the street, walking toward the hills. She saw this 
youth and gave him a quick look. Knowing almost everybody in 
the town, she did not remember having seen this boy before. 

By some miracle, Sam, obeying an impulse, stopped her and 
asked : 

"Can you tell me where the Higgins folks live?" 

He knew there were no Higginses in Preston. The girl stopped 
quickly. After a moment's thought, she answered: 

"Don't remember ever knowing anybody by that name." 

"Guess I've got the wrong name," Sam retorted slowly, trying 
to down a heavy lump that was gathering in his throat. 

She looked around, but saw no one. Then, impressed by the 
boy's face, his beautiful eyes and his honest, frank tone, she added: 

"Maybe there's a Higgins down in the next street. I'll show 
you where." 

As soon as they began walking, Sam lost his nervousness, much 
to his own surprise. The girl herself was nervous, though this 
passed unnoticed. 

Before they reached the next block, Mary inquired: 

"Where are you from?" 

Sam answered quickly: "I'm from Elmsville and my name is — " 

He stopped short. 

"What'd you say your name is?" the girl persisted. 

"Sam—" 

"Sam. Sam what?" 

"Just Sam is what I go by." 

The girl started. 

"You ain't Sam — the Sam from Elmsville?" 

He nodded. 

Mary said no more. She had heard in some mysterous manner 
that in Elmsville there lived a youth whose lot was like her own. 

Finally, she stammered : 

"I — I guess I was wrong when I thought there was a Higgins 
family in this street. I don't think there any such people here." 

Sam felt that this girl knew him for what he really was and 
that she desired to rid herself of his presence, despite the obvious 
fact that but a minute before she had appeard anxious to talk 
with him. 

"She's like me," he said to himself, "and that's why she's afraid 
of me." 

She was afraid of him; afraid of the effect it would have on 
the neighbors when they saw Mary and Sam walking together, two 



86 The Color of Life 



birds of a feather, two innocent sufferers. Mary knew it would be 
looked upon as a huge joke; it would be the topic for weeks; and 
Sam knew the same thing. Telling her he was sorry he couldn't 
find the Higgins people and that nothing couM be done but to return 
to Elmsville, Sam left her. 

Mary gazed after him in a longing manner as though she pitied 
her comrade in sorrow. She didn't want him to leave, but before 
she could summon courage to invite him to stay, Sam was gone. 

He never returned to Preston. He often thought of this girl, 
this beautiful Mary, but he gave up all hopes. He longed to know 
her, to climb to the hilltops with her, to walk the lanes and the fields 
together, but it all appeared impossible and beyond him. 

An'd for almost three years he remained in Elmsville and never 
met Mary again. The villages had built a wall around them that 
kept them by themselves — and this wall kept them from each other. 

♦ ♦ •♦• 

AND NOW HE WAS in his own room in the big city, among 
people who didn't care about his father, who let him alone. He was 
happy. For not having broken av/ay sooner he called himself a 
fool. However, he was in New York — ^he was where he could be 
a human being. And poor, helpless Mary — Sam thought of her 
as he thought of the life from which he had just escaped. And he 
wondered if she would ever "kick over the traces," as he had done, 
and go to the big city — where nobody seems to care. 

The months passed rapidly. Autumn came, with its chill winds 
and its gray skies. 

As he sat on the edge of his cot, this cold November night, Sam 
heard a sharp noise. Mrs McCarty, with a grumble, had sur- 
rendered, allowing the heating plant to take its toll in the form 
of coal; and as the steam, for the first time, forced its way up the 
pipes, it caused a noise that was disturbing, to say the least. 

Sam knew the cause of this noise and that it would soon sub- 
side, but it was another noise that soon attracted his attention. 
From the other room came a distinct moan. He sprang from his 
bed and rushed to the wall, where he stood and listened. It sounded 
like a woman. 

"Anything the matter in there?" he called. 

"There's some one trying to get in this room," came in low tones 
through the thin partition. 

Sam hurried into the hallway, but saw no one. 

"There's nothing out here," he said, hardly above a whisper. 

"Then what's that noise?" the other asked. 

"Oh, that's the steam pipes. Ain't you ever lived in a house 
that's had steam pipes? They make that kind of noise. Turn o-n 
your steam and it'll stop soon," he answered. 

He heard the inmate of the room hurry to the radiator. Pres- 
ently the door opened timidly and a voice announced: 

"I can't find what to turn." 

Sam peered into the face of the person before him — and started. 

"Is it possible — why — is it you — Mary?" 

The girl was astounded. 

"Why," she answered, "who are you?" 

"Don't you remember me?" 

Mary nodded. 

"You're Sam, of Elmsville" 

"Yes, and you're Mary, of Preston." 

Sam laughed. 



The Color of Life 87 



"This is a fine mix-up, ain't it? I'll tell you what to do; get 
fixed up and meet me on the stoop outside, will you?" 

Five minutes later they were conversing as they walked up and 
down the sidewalk. 

"How long have you been here?" he inquired. 

"Only three days. How long've you been here?" 

"Since last summer. I'm working in a machine shop, learnin' 
a fine trade — machinist. I certainly am glad." 

"That's fine," Mary commented. "I'm going to look for a job 
tomorrow." 

"So you quit up at Preston, eh?" 

"I wanted the big city," she said, so I — " 

"Just like me," Sam interrupted; "just like me. I kicked over the 
whole business because I wanted to get to the big city where I 
could be a — " 

He stopped short. Mary understood. 

Mary had the good fortune to soon find a job. These two work- 
ers soon became close friends. Together they went to the moving 
picture shows; on gala occasions they went to the theatre. To- 
gether they partook of ice cream sodas and candies. And when Sam 
felt that his future as a machinst was assured he asked her the 
question. 

"We can be happy down here," he said. "Both of us can be 
like everybody. Up there we'd go crazy, but down here it's all dif- 
ferent There ain't no wall down here. The big city takes us all 
and asks no questions." 

Mary took his hand and squeezed it gently. 
^ ♦> 4t 

MRS. McCARTY WAS grieved when she learned that they were 
to be married. Both had paid their rent promptly, both had been 
ideal roomers. 

"And now," she complained, "they're going to get married and 
leave me." 

And then an idea dawned on her. 

"Oh, Sam," she said, enthusiastically; "why don't you stay 
where you are after you get married?" 

"The room I'm in is too small," Sam announced. 

"But," Mrs. McCarty persisted, "there's only a thin wall between 
the two rooms. I'll have it taken down and you'll have a big room. 
Ain't that a good idea?" 

"So long as we don't want a flat yet, I don't see anything bad 
about that," said Sam to Mary. "What do you say?" 

"I think it's all right," Mary commented. 

"All right," Sam told Mrs. McCarty. "Let's have that wall 
pulled down." 

A Poor Rejected Genius. 

REJECTED geniuses may be seen on all sides. The one that 
visited me last week takes the cake. He came to my apart- 
ment and announced: "Well, it's all off between me and Be- 
lasco." "What's the matter?" I inquired nonchalantly, as the stories 
put it. 

"My play — you know, the one I call 'A Woman's Revenge' — ^well, 
I demanded the return of the 'script this morning. Yes, sir, I made 
him hand it back to me." 



The Color of Life 



"What was the trouble?" I asked, sensing a "touch." 

"He liked the play immensely; said it was better than 'Wife 
in Name Only,' than 'The Terrible Turk's Deception,' than 'The 
Senorita's Downfall,' and 'A Servant Girl's Indiscretions,' but that 
I'd have to make a change." 

"So?" 

"Yes. Said I'd have to change a comma in the third act to a 
semicolon, but I said nothing doing. I'm true to me art, and'll 
never let a money-cursed, profit-grubbin', commercialized manager 
dictate to me and try to corrupt my art. I said to him: 'Mr. Belasco, 
either it stays a comma or I take my 'script. You can't get me to 
bow under the yoke of conventionality. I stand or fall on the comma.* 
He let me fall. Curses take the managers who try to undermine 
the ideals of the young!" 

He then proposed the "touch" — "two dollars, old man, uatil Sat- 
urday." I then offered to compromise by giving him a dollar. When 
he protested, I said: "If I'm willing to lose a bean I don't see why 
you shouldn't be willing to lose one. We're each out a dollar." 

The Father-in-Law of Vivie. 

WHENEVER Donald Wand, Jr., young and fairly well-to-do, 
found doubts, troubles or disappointments enter his life he 
always turned to his father for advice. And his father in- 
variably tried, to the best of his ability, to remedy matters. 

"So you think little Vivie is not loving you as much as she did in 
the past?" Wand asked, after his son had told him what was weighing 
on his mind. 

"Uh-huh." 

"Do you think she loves someone else?" Wand inquired. 

"I don't know," replied his son. 

"You mean you haven't any proof?" 

"Exactly." 

Wand thought a moment. The silence oppressed his son. Pres- 
ently, he said: 

"My boy, it may not be serious in the least." 

"But," he added slowly; "I do think the girl nee'ds a little heart 
to heart talk — " 

"Just the thing," exclaimed the young man; "that's what I 
wish you'd do for me. You see, I wouldn't know how to begin to 
do it myself." 

"Very well," acquiesed his father; "leave it to me. I'll let you 

know just what takes place." 

^ ^ ^ 

THAT EVENING, DONALD WAND visited at the home of his 
son. He found Vivie alone. He was a man who always spoke his 
mind in unmistakable English. His hair was just beginning to turn 
gray, but he had the appearance of one in life's magnificent prime ; he 
was tall, well-built and pleasing to look upon. With a dignified air 
he went through life impressing all who knew him with a strong 
sense of his own importance. 

"Vivie," said he calmly; "you will pay strict attention to what 
I have to tell you?" 

Vivie was surprised. She looked at him through her large, 
blue eyes in a manner that indicated her suspense. She was a grace- 



The Color of Lif e 89 



ful little woman of about twenty and had a pleasing personality that 
made people anxious to gain her friendship. She had a thin, well- 
formed nose, even, bow-shaped lips, and a figure that caused one to 
turn for a second glance. 

"Why, what do you wish to say to me?" she asked. 

"You have been my daughter-in-law for almost a year — " 

"Yes," she interrupted, "but — " 

"Let me finish," he commanded. 

Continuing, he said: 

"During that time my son has been the happiest man in the 
world. You have been a good wife, but — " 

"But what?" Vivie gasped. 

"Of late he notices a change in you. Something seems to have 
come between you and my son — " He hesitated a moment. 

Vivie paled. 
^ "What do you mean?" she pleaded. 

"I mean that my son thinks you have ceased to love him," he 
answered. 

Vivie smiled faintly. Then she quickly added: 

"It is true." 

"What! You confess? You love him no longer?" 

Vivie nodded. 

"I 'do not love him." 

It was now Wand's turn to gasp. 

"You mean it?" 

"I never loved him." 

"Y.you— you— !" 

"I love someone else." 

"Who? Tell me, who?" 

"YOU!" 

Wand felt as though he had been struck on the head. 

"You — you love me?" he stammered. 

"Yes; I love you with all my heart. I have always loved you. 
Oh, you cannot understand how I have suffered, how it has pained 
me to live with him; you are my ideal." 

"You really love me?" he asked in a calmer tone, a conceited 
smile flitting across his lips. 

"Yes, yes," Vivie replied, drawing closer; "I shall never love 
a man as I have loved you this last year; and I shall love you as 
long as I live — " 

"You astound me, Vivie; I little expected this from you — " 

"But you will not be angry with me?" she asked, sweetly. 

"No, no; love is beyond measure and calculation — it is some- 
thing that comes when least expected in forms little dreamed of; 
it is not to be condemned — " 

"And you — you love me?" she asked quickly; "Oh, say yes! 
Make me the happiest woman in the world." 

"Yes, Vivie, I love you passionately. I have always loved you, 
but you always seemed beyond my reach — I never even tried to win 
you. But now you know that I love you. And you really love me!" 
he exclaimed, enthusiastically. 

"Oh! At last!" 

"But what is to be done?" Wand asked quickly. 

"What can be done?" 

Wand thought a moment. Then he said: 

"Nothing dare come between our love. We belong to each 
other—" 

"But your son?" 



90 The Color of Life 



"The scoundrel! He is your husband, but in name only. I shall 
be your true husband — your lover!" 

"Then we shall not go away together?" 

Wand hesitated. 

"It would be foolish. Stay with him, but don't be afraid; we 
shall be happy nevertheless — " 

Suddenly, Vivie exclaimed: 

"And now, Mr. Wand, you may go — " 

"Go? What do you mean?" he asked excitedly. 

"I mean that you are a fool. You came here to save me 
from some imaginary evil and turn out to be the evil itself. You 
are an old fool, goodnight." 

Wand was completely routed. He had not a word to say. He 
realized that he was dupe-d. 

At last he succeeded in pleading: "W-what shall I tell my son? 
What will you tell him?" 

"I don't know. Goodnight." 

The Last Manuscript. 

"Then black despair. 
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 
Over the world in which I moved alone." 

— Shelley. 

HIS wife called him a fool. She said he was an idler, a good- 
for-nothing. But, he continued writing — he was determined 
to reach his goal. He aimed his arrows toward the stars, 
but they fell to the ground. 

For years, he wrote of life as he saw it. He mirrored slices of 
human life, he told stories of human nature — he pictured its tragedy, 
its comedy, its pathos and its folly. He told no lies — he was a 
searcher for the truth. But each story came back to him. And as 
they returned, his wife sneered, torturing him with her taunts. 

"Forget this silly business," she protested; "I'm tired of it all 
and I want you to stop. I'm your wife, and you must take care of 
me." 

He sighed, unable to answer her. 

Years before, he had argued with her, telling her that his day 
would surely come. He had assured her that the editors would rec- 
ognize his genius and help him to fame. All would be well — just a 
little patience wouM prove him right. 

She waited and watched, and saw nothing definite except cour- 
teous rejection slips — and so, she nagged and lashed him for his 
foolish waste of time. 

The years passed slowly. He wrote feverishly, poured manu- 
scripts into the mail. They came back. They came without even a 
word of encouragement. 

This, in time, ate into his faith; the poison of despondency crept 
into his blood, "melancholy marked him for her own" — and he was 
lost, forever lost. 

One morning, he announced that he had written his last manu- 
script. 

"Here it is," he said sadly; "this is the end." 

Her face brightened. 



The Color of Life 91 



"Ah, you've come to your senses," she announced, triumphantly; 
"Thank God, you've got over it all." 

He smiled. He placed the manuscript in an envelope and sent 
it away. 

♦♦♦ ♦> ^ 

TWO DAYS LATER, he was found dead in a room, heavy with 
gas, which his own hand had turned on. She discovered a short 
note by his side. It told her that he was tired of his futile chase; 
he was a failure; he was hopeless — so, he ended his worthless life. 

And while his body lay in that house, a letter came. She read 
it, and trembled. His last manuscript had been accepted. 



Perfume. 



At dawn you g-o, and all hot tears. 
All "dreams and hopes and visions bright, 

All the young love of all the years 
Is crowded in our love tonight. 

—Walsh. 

HE was attracted to her by the wonderful perfume. It moved 
him to the depths. He kissed her. 
"Love hath but an hour," the girl quoted. 

He agreed with her. 

"It is the perfume that brought you to me," she pouted; "so, 
you shall love me and I shall love you only as long as this perfume 
lives. When it has passed, then my love shall fade away with it." 

"Good!" said he, "think of all the passions we must crowd into 
the short life that fate gives to a spray of perfume! When the per- 
fume dies, the love dies!" 

He loved her with an intensity that knew no bounds ; and through 
it all, he felt the ever-approaching end, he detected the perfume's 
waning fragrance. He didn't want the love to 'die so soon; he want- 
ed it to have more than an hour, he wanted the perfume to last. 

And she, the beautiful flower, crowded her soul with all the 
love of the centuries. 

The days passed; his love remained firm; the fragrance still 
lived. 

And then, after quietly entering the room, he learned why their 
love had lived more than an hour. He found her before the mirror. 
He saw the tears course down her cheeks. And, he saw her spray 
her hair, her wonderful hair, with that love-compelling perfume. 

A Pastel in Pessimism. 

NO, I've had enough of this violin. I am going to put it away 
tonight and never touch it again. I mean every word I say. 
Why? Oh, so, so. You think I am insane? Never felt better 
in my life. I am foolish? Maybe. We're all fools, more or less. Yes, 
I know I have talent. Yes, I have a great future, but I am determined 
to abandon my violin. Until today I was a dreamer of day dreams; 
at this moment I am a changed person. Well, if you are going to 
persist, I'll give you my reason. 



92 The Color of Life 



Do you see that chauffeur over there? No, no; not that one; 
the other. ¥/ell, his name is Orlando. Never heard the name before, 
eh? Well, turn to The Musical Record and you'll learn a fact or two 
about him. He was master of the violin at twenty. Carried off the 
first prize at the Paris conservatory. For a time he studied under Hans 
Sattler, Joachim heard him play the Rene Joseph concerto in D sharp 
and went into raptures ; declared him a genius. That Orlando spent the 
fifteen best years of his life over a quartette of gut strings; practiced 
night and day; spent thousands of dollars; traveled from master to 
master. Why? For what? Just to be able to create a tone softer than the 
thrush's. For fifteen years he studied, poor fellow. All that time he 
prepared himself for his grand Berlin debut. At last he felt ready 
to appear before the critics. 

The National Opera House was jammed. He played a concerto 
and was accompanied by the Deutscher Philharmonic Orchestra. Read 
the Zeitgeist for the reception he was given. Every critic in Berlin 
declared that he was the greatest of the great. Orlando bowM him- 
self off that platform a recognized artist. He was a success. He 
seemed invulnerable. 

And then, what happened? Ha! Ha! it's a joke; a huge joke. He 
walked to his hotel that night. He was excited, poor boy; flushed 
with his success. Orlando stepped into the elevator. In closing the 
door, the operator was a little too smft. Just a third of an inch of the 
index finger of Orlando's left hand was smashed. That was all. 
But that v/as enough. And there he is now. So tell me; what's the 
use? I waste no more time. 



Perpetual Motion. 

HE first got the idea back in '63, after the battle of Gettysburg. 
They were in a group — Robert Gibbons and some privates — 
and the talk turned to perpetual motion. 

"It'll never come," said one. 

"If the planets are always moving, then a machine ought to be 
able to move forever if once started," said another. "You never 
can tell what an inventor may do some day." 

Robert Gibbons took it all in. His mind turned to prepetual mo- 
tion. He thought of nothing save perpetual motion. After his dis- 
charge he went back to his wife. 

"I'm going to invent a machine that will go forever," he told his 
skeptical wife. "I don't care if it takes all my life to work it out." 

So long as he spent his evenings at his experiments she didn't 
protest with any degree of firmmess. But, when he quit his job one 
fine day and announced that he would need all his time to work out 
the problem, she objected strenuously. 

But that availed her nothing. He v/as determined to have his 
own way about the matter. 

"I'm going to invent a machine that will move forever after you 
touch a wheel and start it. It will go until it wears out." 

"But what about money?" she asked. 

"Money?" he repeated. "What do I want to worry about money? 
When I succeed, when I give perpetual motion to the world, I'll be- 
come a millionaire many times over, and the government, in addi- 
tion, will appropriate a pension of $50,000 a year — I'll roll in wealth 
— just you wait until I've invented my machine." 



The Color of Life 93 

"And while we're waiting, we'll have to live on soup, eh?" 

"Well, we may have it hard for a few months, but we'll manage 
to get along on my army pension — I'll win before long." 

She wasn't much good at arguing. Having declared herself, she 
retired to her corner. In the meantime there was nothing for h-er 
to do except let him have his own way. She knew him to be a stub- 
born man who hated to be crossed when his mind was set upon 
anything. 

The argument at an end, he returned to the garret, where he spent 
eighteen hours without even a halt. 

He would remain at his bench for days at a stretch, peering at blue 

prints, studying rough drawings and puttering about in his chase 

for perpetual motion. It seemed as though he lived on his hopes, 

-on his plans — he ate very little, a cup of weak tea seemed to satisfy 

his hunger. 

He made a thousand models and destroyed them. He drew ten 
thousand plans and tore them to pieces. But he was undaunted. He 
was always sure that his next experiment would bring the great tri- 
umph — perpetual motion. 

His wife, after hopeless waiting, concluded that it would be use- 
less to disturb him in his dreams. She made the pension go as far 
as possible and earned what little she could through scrubbing and 
washing. She was ready to make the most of a bad deal. 

After years, Gibbons ceased thinking of anything save perpetual 
motion. His hands could see nothing but wheels, wheels that turned 
and turned, wheels that would turn from now till the crack of doom. 

When he was sixty years old, he was still v/orking on perpetual 
motion, still struggling to make a wheel turn for all time. 

He finished a model and touched a wheel, giving it a slight push. 
It moved, the wheel commenced revolving, gaining momentum. At 
last! His machine was here. He was victor! 

He ran to the door and called for his wife. 

"Come here and sea it!" he shouted. "I've got it going! I've won!" 

She hurried in. 

"Don't you see it moving? See!" 

She looked from the model to the man and shook her head. 

"I don't see nothin' move," she said. 

"Fool!" he cried, "where are your eyes?" 

But the woman again shook her head. 

She looked into her husband's eyes and saw a strange light — hie 
gray eyes seemed to be looking beyond her, away off in space. 

And then she slowly said: 

"Yes, yes — I see it — it's moving." 

"To be sure you see it. There is my reward after forty years of 
work — I have discovered the secret. You see it! I see it! Ha! Good! 
My wonderful machine; you see it moving! It will go on forever!" 

He still thinks the wheels are turning — forever turning. 



94 The Color of Life 



Was He Sane? 

TO Mitchell Knox, the court proceedings were strikingly peculiar 
and interesting — never before had he known a trial scene to be 
so replete with attention-binding situations. 

The judge was the first to attract and hold him intent on each of 
his nods, his expressions, and his words. 

This man, thought Knox, is conscious of a great power — a strength 
capable of giving or taking human life; a man clothed in the robe of 
authority — serious-minded and solemn. 

"What a dangerous man to have in a community!" Knox mut- 
tered, under his breath. "Who gave him this power to pass on hu- 
man activities? Even I, a spectator, have much to fear when such 
men are permitted to rule — permitted to say what shall be and what 
shall not be," 

And why does he sit there, wrapped in black? asked Knox. Why 
should he meddle? Why should he take it upon himself to pass on 
this and that when he might be spending his time living and enjoying 
life? 

"What's that he said?" Knox inquired; "human life is sacred? 
There's nothing cheaper than life — it's not even worth reckoning 
with! Who told him to prattle and babble? He interests, and yet, 
unfortunately, he bores. Maybe it is the fact that he is such a digni- 
fied and uncommon bore that makes him so interesting. Who knows? 

"And look at that prosecuting attorney! He is burning with 
passion. He is alive with determination to revenge what he considers 
a wrong. And what is it all about? A dead person — long buried — 
slowly decaying — and to remedy matters he desires to send another 
human being to his grave — to rot — slowly decay! What good will 
it do him? What good will it do the dead person? What good will 
it do the jury? It is all foolishness! 

"And see, there is the lawyer for the defense — what a beautiful 
man! He is fighting tenaciously to save a wretch. 

"Indeed, everyone is serious — too serious — I don't think the pris- 
oner feels it all so keenly as do these persons here — that's the way 
all things are. We never cease crying over the poor — the poor are 
the least concerned over their own sufferings." 

Knox then turned to gaze at the jury — they were a stolid group 
of men — solemn and serious — like the judge. And they were to pass 
on the prisoner on trial ! 

"Who are they to judge? What right have they to consider the 
actions of another — the cowards! Twelve against one man! It's .not 
fair — they ought not to outnumber. 

"And the people! See the crowd of spectators! How they gape, 
opened-mouthed and tense!" 

And then, Mitchell Knox decided to scrutinze the prisoner. He 
looked on all sides, but could not find the man on trial. 

He spoke to the man who was the attorney for the defense. 

"Pardon me, sir," said Knox, "I've seen everything and every- 
one except the man on trial — " 

"Why, you are the defendant." 

"I?" 

"To be sure." 

"Oh, thank you. And am I charged with murder?" 

The lawyer nodded. 

"And who, may I ask, did I murder? My wife? I never knew 
I had a wife! This is getting real interesting!" 



Here's What Some Kind Souls Said 

About ''The Pest and Other 

One'- Act Flaps" 



Clement Wood, in The New York 
Call: Let me strongly advise you, 
my friend, if you have literary 
aspirations, or are interested in 
literary things, to go without one 
ice-cream soda and walk to the 
office some morning, in order to 
save ten pennies to forward out 
to Girard for this booklet. Plays — 
oh, call them that if you want to. 
They would have been as effective 
as essays, in short story form, or 
in the chopped-up prose that so 
many clever modern people are 
calling vers libre. They are not 
especially adapted for dramatic 
rendition; as the critic says in the 
name piece, substituting our au- 
thor's name for Shaw's, "Julius 
mistakes talk for drama." But 
they are keen, caustic, curt and 
cutting comments on current con- 
ceptions and conventions. It would 
be so easy for an unfriendly critic 
to dismiss the playlets with a 
word, "Ah, 'The Pest,' Emanuel 
Julius; aptly named." But that 
wouldn't begin to tell the story. 
For we have the critic here, the 
popular novelist, Mr. Epigram, 
Miss Real Life, Mr. Dictionary 
Webster, Capital, Labor and 
Elaine, the heroine, . . . their 
reactions to the hypocrisy fair, 
which is the world of literature 
today, are revealing and delight- 
ful. Many are the shams that are 
unshammed in this thoroughly en- 
joyable satire. 

^* 4» ♦ 

The New England Socialist: 

The word clever has somewhat 
lost caste. Today it signifies, too 
often, a merely superficial skill. 
But when a reviewer calls these 
three plays by Emanuel Julius 
elever, he means (at least this one 



does) that the conception of the 
plays is radically original, their 
style convincingly satiric and their 
irood genuinely comic. If that's 
too much meaning to pack into 
the word "clever," then make up 
your own word; better still, get 
these three plays and read them. 
They'll make you laugh — and 
think. 

■* 4* ■* 

The Mirror: In "The Pest," the 
writer pokes fun at American nov- 
elists. This play contains a 
thorough criticism of American 
literary art in a form that is at- 
tractive. His second play, "Slum- 
ming," is frankly a Socialist's 
opinion on present-day conditions. 
The third, "Adolescence," is plain 
nonsense in which puritanical in- 
tolerance is hit between the eyes. 
These three plays are certain to 
fail because they break the great 
American commandment: "Thou 
shalt not commit irony." 

4* *• -^ 

The Oakland (Cal.) World: 

"The Pest" is a clever satire on 
much of the stereotyped skeptical 
structure that (alas!) will not 
remain a mysterious "skeleton in 
the closet," but insists on parad- 
ing through innumerable best 
sellers. In "Slumming" Mr. Julius 
has the unprecedented gall to in- 
troduce us to a Socialist butler! 
This comedy depicts the slumming 
expedition of "Jim" to the home 
of a wealthy New York dame. 
"Adolescence" contains the proper 
orthodox stage props, including 
the turning of the daughter out 
into the bitter snow storm when 
she has committed the unpardona- 
ble crime of becoming "a-dole-es- 



cent!" Come again, Emanuel 
Julius. We need these smiles. 
They are sharp weapons. 

'^ ^ ^ 

The Worker's Chronicle: Eman- 
uel Julius is a radical writer who 
has a delicate and artistic touch 
very refreshing to meet in the 
literature of a movement which 
too generally inclines toward the 
commonplace and prosaic. He is 
not a mere propagandist, who me- 
chanically recites syllogisms and 
argues laboriously from cause to 
effect, but is a creator of genuine 
and interesting literature. Julius 
is never dry; he always satisfies 
the intellectual thirst. Satire is 
his long suit; with keen pen he 
relentlessly — yet, one feels, good- 
naturedly — exposes the absurd 
shams and inconsistencies of our 
social system. During the past 
six years the work of Emanuel 
Julius has attracted favorable 
notice, not only in the Socialist 
movement, but in wider literary 
-circles. The one-act play is Mr. 
Julius' favorite vehicle of expres- 
sion, and Mr. Julius has finally 
yielded to the wishes of friends 
and admirers by issuing three of 
his best plays in permanent form. 
No one who reads these three 
plays of Emanuel Julius can fail 
to appreciate their literary merit 
;and human interest. Each play 
'Contains both a laugh and a lesson. 



The American Socialist: Every- 
one who has read Emanuel Julius' 
short sketches recognizes in him 
a masterful satirist whose origi- 
nality in phrasing cut like a two- 
edged sword the thing he is ex- 
posing to ridicule. In this little 
volume of plays Julius excels him- 
self. Julius never did like modern 
made-to-order fiction and much 
less did he like their guilty perpe- 
trators who turn out novels on a 
piece work basis at so much a 
word. And in "The Pest" he takes 
this type of novelist who he quite 
appropriately names Mr. Ten- 
Cents-A-Word and keeps him on 
the gridiron for quite a while to 
the utter delight of his readers. 
The booklet contains two other 
amusing playlets entitled "Slum- 
ming" and "Adolescence." In the 
first of these Julius makes the 
v/ealthy pampered lady who be- 
lieves it her social duty to go 
"slumming" take a dose of her 
own medicine. The tables are 
turned. Instead of her doing the 
"slumming" one of the slum pro- 
letarians comes into her house on 
a "slumming" expedition. And the 
dialogue that takes place pro- 
vokes roaring laughter. In the 
latter playlet Julius with stilleto- 
like satire pierces the melodram- 
atists who write the "Broadway" 
plays. 



Get ''The Pest J' h;p sending 
Ten Cents to 

Emanuel Julius, 
Box 125, 
Girard. Kansas 



Committees of One help the privately print- 
ed booh reach the public. If you are pleased 
with this little volume, you might find it 
convenient to advise your friends to send 
for a copy. Be a Committee of One 

GIRARD PRINT SHOP -;- SIRARD, KANSAS 






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